


The Nesting Habits of Sparrow Hawks

by warwickshire_border



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - 1960s, Alternate Universe - 1970s, Angst, Forests, Horror, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Park Ranger Will, Religious Guilt, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Sexual Tension, Someone Help Will Graham
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:41:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 18
Words: 25,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28368558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/warwickshire_border/pseuds/warwickshire_border
Summary: 1969.In an empty corner of Triangle, Virginia, a European stranger arrives unannounced at the Prince William Forest Park visitor centre to investigate an unusual finding in the woods. His shoes are too Italian, his car is too clean, and his smile is too wide.Will Graham's colleagues joke that he always seems to attract strange creatures.This one is no different.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 80
Kudos: 168





	1. Venison

_1969._

He was the second of two strange bucks to roll into Triangle, Virginia that afternoon.

The first had been a whitetail. A youth. Barely over a year old, Will had estimated, judging by the size of the antlers. Not much skin on its bones, he’d thought. But good symmetry in the antlers, good branching, no abnormalities in his appearance.

It was his behaviour which was atypical.

Will had taken the truck down alongside the Quantico. He’d needed to take the fence supports down to the cabins and the ground was hard from a few rare dry days, so he’d seized the opportunity before the rain came in over the weekend. Otherwise, the truck would be useless in the mud and he’d be lugging them down by hand.

He’d loaded the bed the night before in the dark and thought nothing of it, but coming up to a bend in the trail a few miles in the buck had stepped out into his headlights and he’d braked, sending a large fence post flying from its loose tether and crashing down into the undergrowth.

Will swore.

The buck remained unmoved.

Will rolled the window and gave him a few, sharp claps, which would usually move the most stubborn of creatures. Deer are generally obnoxiously skittish. To see one standing still from this close it would usually have to be dead, stuffed, and mounted on a wall. 

The buck stared. Dead-eyed. Unblinking.

Will popped the door and went off, cursing, to retrieve the post, which had wedged itself in a large thicket and split neatly in two on impact. Rendered utterly unusable. And with the rain and winds coming in he'd hoped to make every support count. 

He threw both pieces over his shoulders and tied them, firmly, back down to the truck bed, then climbed back up behind the wheel and slammed the door.

The deer tilted his head, like a dog. And stared.

Will flicked the headlights on and off. He rolled the truck forward an inch. He honked the horn. And all the while he felt a growing uneasiness. He fumbled to his left, not breaking the stare, feeling for the barrel of his shotgun. It was only there to spook coyotes. Even the occasional black bear. Anything with teeth and claws. It wasn't his deer hunting gun. Much too blunt an instrument for that. 

But this buck. 

This buck was staring. Like it was hungry.

Like it was _ravenous_. 

They stared.

Unmoving.

Unblinking.

Will spooked first. Drawing the shotgun across his lap, cracking his door open and firing a warning shot into the ground. As if the spell had broken, the deer scattered into the woods. Will put the pickup into gear and carried on his way, split fence post quickly forgotten.

But the uneasiness still lingered. Even for an hour after he was checking over his shoulder. He could still feel eyes on him. 

The second strange buck rolled up in a stone-grey European car, so clean it was as though it was fresh from the dealership.

And he was listening to something classical with the windows down, and sat in the lot for a few minutes like that. Shuffling papers. Humming to himself. Right hand twitching on the wheel. Like he was conducting. 

He'd been wearing leather driving gloves, which he pulled off with his teeth as he got out and threw onto his backseat. He took a long, deep breath.

He saw Will. Smoking, quietly, by the gate, as he tended to do. And smiling, politely, stepped away from his car and towards the visitor centre.

“Am I in the right place?”

Will noted his accent. European, to match the car.

“You’re just about in Prince William Forest Park.”

“ _Wonderful_.”

The European stepped carefully around a pothole, preserving his Italian shoes.

“You've got a badge. I do hope you're a ranger.”

“Will.”

“Ranger Will. A pleasure.”

He extended a long, delicate hand, which Will took, hesitantly. As though it might bite him. 

“I’m Dr Lecter," he prompted, after a pause.

"I’m here about the corpse.”


	2. Instant Coffee

“I must have spoken to your colleague.”

Dr Lecter was reclining casually in one of the armchairs they kept in the staff room. It had been covered in a thin layer of dust that he’d attempted to discreetly brush off before he sat, but soon realised it was futile and settled down quite fluidly. Like some sort of cat.

“Man or woman?”

“Woman.”

“That was Bev then. Not surprised it slipped her mind.”

“Scatter-brained, is she?”

“No, no. Busy. It’s peak season right now and she deals with visitors. Loose dogs, kids with sprained ankles. That sort of thing.”

“And what do you do, Will?”

“Avoid visitors at all costs.”

Dr Lecter chuckled, and crossed his ankle over his knee, relaxed, like it was his own living room.

He was tall, just to the threshold of unnervingly so. Tall to the extent that he had to unfold himself out of his car, and duck under the low lodge doorways. He was lean with it too. He seemed to carry all his weight in his torso, so his face had a gauntness to it, with thin, serious lips and eyes fixed in a perpetual squint. He looked to Will as though he either needed glasses, or was in a permanent state of severe judgement towards every part of his surroundings. His mid-length grey hair was swept back behind his ears to reveal his widow's peak, deliberate, Will thought. Trying to appear wise. Thoughtful. Maybe even paternal, he was a psychiatrist after all. His long fingers rested, still, poised, on the armrests. No ring. Nothing to suggest there ever was one.

Lecter noticed Will's eye contact. He held it. 

“Ah. Well, I’m sorry it was you I intruded on, Will.”

“No worries. Coffee?”

Lecter hesitated.

“Is it instant, by any chance?”

“It is.”

“Then that’s quite alright, thank you.”

Will put the second mug back in the cupboard and scooped the instant into his own.

“Palette too refined for instant?”

“Spoilt by my espresso machine, I’m afraid. Very difficult to go back.”

“Haven’t had a proper coffee in years.”

“I shall have to bring you a flask of it.”

For a moment, the only thing breaking the silence was the faint chiming of the teaspoon on the sides of the mug, and the faint droning of a radio out in the entrance.

“Where did you drive down from?”

“My office is in Montclair. Unless you’re asking about the accent?”

“I wasn’t. I went to school in Montclair. Nice place.”

“It is. I’m very happy there.”

“What is it you do again?”

“I’m a psychiatrist. But I’ve made a bit of a name for myself consulting for the FBI.”

“On what?”

“Criminal profiling.”

Will let out a low whistle, impressed.

“Sounds like it pays well.”

“It’s rewarding, put it that way.”

“I bet. Is that why you do it?”

The doctor looked up, and smiled, briefly, as though he was thinking.

“It’s a factor,” Lecter agreed, after a pause. “Why do you do this, Will?”

“Oh yeah, you really are a psychiatrist huh.”

“Forgive me. It was genuine curiosity.”

Will took a long sip of coffee, and perched on the arm of the chair across from Lecter.

“I guess I like the peace and quiet.”

“Would you say you find it meditative?”

“Something like that.”

“Well, I can agree with you there. It’s an amazing place.”

“It’s the largest example of Eastern Piedmont forest in the National Park System. The most heavily altered and destroyed ecosystem in North America.”

“A glimpse of the past.”

“Yeah. Sort of. There actually used to be a town here, they knocked it down in the 30s to make a place for kids to camp during the Depression.”

“Can’t imagine the residents were happy about that.”

“No. Not particularly.”

"So it's all a front then? It's barely 40 years old."

"Quite a lot of it's modern, yeah. It's an act for the tourists."

Lecter nodded, expression faintly amused. Will drained his mug, and checked his watch.

“So what do you need from us then?”

“I’d love to know how you found the body.”

Will furrowed his brow.

“We already told the cops everything. They took pictures.”

“I always prefer to hear first-hand. Call it an occupational habit.”

“Sure.”

“And I’d like to see where they found it.”

“Again, there’s nothing left. And it’s a hike.”

“Then you can tell me the details on the way.”

Will ran his mug under hot water and left it to dry, scooping up his keys from the sideboard and clipping them to his belt.

“Those shoes won’t last five minutes. I’ve probably got some boots you can borrow.”

“Thank you.”

“What size?”

“I’m not quite sure in US. Something around a 14?”

Will held back the comment he wanted to make, and directed the doctor to try on Price’s spares.

“Chuck the posh ones in a box somewhere, or else someone will steal them.”

“Noted.”

“And I’ll need to go grab my gun from the truck.”

“Gun?”

Lecter paused mid-shoelace.

“Shotgun. In case anything tries to eat you.”

Will had expected some level of fear from the doctor, but he was met with a fascinated smile as he rose and headed out to the front door. 

“Oh, _exciting_.”


	3. Chanterelle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just wanted to quickly say thank you so much for the support so far. My writing has gotten pretty rusty and I’m using this to get into a regular schedule and for a bit of fun, so your support so far means the world to me. I hope you enjoy wherever this all goes.

The worst part was that a kid found him.

He was wrapped in a white cotton bedsheet. About a half mile out from the track, curled up on his side, hands tucked under his chin, like a cherub.

Someone had tucked his guts back in. But it seemed that over however many days he’d been there, the rain had come in and he’d started to slide down the bank and towards the river, leaving a trail of his insides behind him.

By the time they found him, he was almost touching the river. Close enough to drink from it, if only God had granted him that much life.

The cops had come down from Washington. They were saying it was a miracle the coyotes hadn’t found him. But Will knew they wouldn’t scavenge unless they were desperate.

In the wild, nothing likes old meat.

“He was all there, then?”

Will paused.

“So you have read the police report?”

“No.”

Lecter was fond of eye contact, even when walking. Will did his best to avoid it.

“Then why do you ask?”

“It’s common for killers to take some sort of token. A memento, if you like. Teeth, hair, eyes…”

Will grimaced.

“They were all there.”

“What wasn’t?”

The ranger shook his head, rubbing the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger as if he was trying to shake the image.

“Let’s just say he uh- he won’t have any trouble hitting the high notes in that heavenly choir.”

“He was emasculated?”

There was no shock in the doctor’s voice. Just a plain confirming of facts.

“They cut his dick off. Yeah.”

“Was there blood?”

“What does that matter?”

“It means we can determine if the castration was done pre or post-mortem.”

There was a long silence. Lecter looked over to Will.

“That means before or after de-“

“I know. I’m just thinking.”

“Trying to remember?”

“I tried not to look at him.”

“And I imagine blood is quite hard to spot on ground like this. Especially old blood. It tends to go quite black.”

“It was. _Black.”_

Lecter nodded, affirmingly.

“Did you see his face?”

“Yes.”

“What did it look like?”

“Dead.”

They walked for a few more minutes in silence, the doctor content with the answer, and Will content with the silence.

“Have you ever seen a dead body before, Will?”

“No.”

“I’m sorry this was your first.”

“It was bound to happen. Job like this.”

“Perhaps. Some career paths just seem to happen upon these things more than others.”

“My dad was a subway driver before I was born.”

Lecter turned his head, and smiled gently. The psychiatrist instinct, Will thought. Encouraging him to keep talking.

“It was his childhood dream but he only stayed a few years. He took it for as long as he could but it was just…too much death.”

“I understand.”

Will caught himself from oversharing any further, noticing Lecter’s silence.

“Of course. You must feel the same.”

“Ah, but that’s different. I had a choice.”

“And you chose to actively help people. That must have some moral comfort, at least.”

“Yes.” The doctor hummed. “It must.”

Will stepped to the side of the path and indicated Lecter to follow him up into the trees.

“I feel awful for the kid. The one who found him.”

“If they’re lucky, they won’t remember it. The human brain has a remarkable ability to block out traumas. Particularly in childhood.”

“If they’re unlucky, they’ll never forget it.”

“That much is also true.”

The undergrowth got thicker as they strayed further from the trail, and their pace slowed considerably as they picked their way through. After a while, Will turned to see the doctor was no longer behind him.

“Oh, look at that.”

Lecter had stopped in his tracks, and was doubled over, peering down into the mud.

“You alright?”

“Mushrooms.”

“Oh, yeah. There’s a lot around.”

“I’m afraid I have an incredible fondness for wild mushrooms.”

“Do you cook?”

“It’s my true passion. I suppose you don’t allow foraging here. Protected wildlife and all that.”

Will shrugged.

“Not technically. But if a tree falls in a forest and no-ones around to hear it…”

“Then can I politely request that you turn around.”

“Sure.”

He averted his eyes as Lecter produced a handkerchief from his pocket, and began to wrap his finds in them.

“Chanterelles are quite a delicacy at this time of year.”

Will picked at a piece of tree bark, absentmindedly.

“I never know what to do with mushrooms.”

“Normally I’d recommend soup. But something as delicate as this, you barely need to touch it at all. Butter, garlic, salt. Sauté until soft and fragrant. The most flavourful compounds in mushrooms are fat soluble you see, so cooking them in a fat is the perfect way to prepare them.”

“You know your stuff.”

“I like to think I’m always learning. You can turn back around now, ranger.”

Will nodded, and motioned Lecter to follow on behind him.

“It’s not much further. You can hear the creek from here.”

“So you can.”

“Do you reckon the killer would have come this way?”

Lecter took in his surroundings.

“I’m not sure. You tell me, Will.”

“How would I know?”

“You know the area. I suspect the killer does too, to have found this place. Put yourself in their head. Which way would you have gone?”

“I guess-”

Will closed his eyes. Stood still for a moment.

“I guess I would go up along the creek.”

“Why?”

“Because when the rain comes in it will wash my footprints away. And the banks would keep the body hidden.”

“How do you know they wanted it to be hidden?”

“If they didn’t, they would have put him on the trail.”

“Exactly. But why by the river? Pure convenience?”

“No, no if they wanted convenience they would have dumped him by the freeway. They’re putting in all that effort to either lead him here or drag the body here.”

“So the location is deliberate.”

“I’d say so. I mean, look at it. It would be a beautiful place to die.”

“Or to kill.”

They crested the hill, and reached the top of the bank. Below them, the Quantico sparkled in the late afternoon sun. Free from the tree cover, the sky was immense. Endless. Reproduced perfectly in the almost still water.

“Where exactly did they find him?”

“Just by the water here. His legs were trailing behind him but his face was right there.”

“Like he was looking at his reflection.”

“Yeah.”

Lecter nodded. He picked his way down the back, to the edge of the creek.

“Watch your footing.”

“I’ll be careful.”

He crouched down by the water. Thinking.

“Have you ever heard the tale of Narcissus, Will?”

“As in narcissist?”

“As in, the mythological hunter from Thespiae, renowned for his beauty. He rejected all romantic suitors, male or female, and instead became infatuated with his own reflection in a pool of water.”

“And then?”

“He realises that his love will never be reciprocated. So he drowns.”

Will watched the river.

“Should have just gone for one of the suitors.”

Lecter rose, and made his way back up the bank to stand at Will’s shoulder. He smiled.

“If only it was a choice.”

With that, he began to make his way up to the trail, without even so much as a look back over his shoulder or a note in his notebook. Will called out after him.

“Was that all you needed to see?”

“That’s all I needed. Thank you for your time, ranger.”

“Do you think you can find your way back?”

“I could.”

The doctor paused.

“But, I wouldn’t mind the company.”


	4. Filet Mignon

By the time Dr Lecter was back to his car, the first storm clouds were already rolling in.

Will watched him leave from the gate, the strains of his classical music fading into the wind as he pulled away, American gravel crunching under his European wheels.

A light came on behind him. Soon enough, Beverly emerged from the visitor centre, wrapped up in every layer she could find and still shivering. She shot him a glance.

“Who was that?”

“Someone from the FBI. About the guy in the creek.”

“Oh! Weird accent?”

“Yeah.”

She threw her hands up in realisation.

“Fuck me running. _That’s_ what I was supposed to be doing.”

“He didn’t mind.”

“You should’ve come and found me. You didn’t have to suffer through.”

“It wasn’t so bad. He’s kinda hard to figure out, even you would’ve had trouble.”

“Well, so are you. So I imagine you got on like a house on fire.”

“I wouldn’t go that far.”

Bev shook her head, disbelieving, and as she did the wind picked up, the first icy rain falling with it. Will pulled his jacket up over his head, and by the time he had turned to suggest they move the conversation indoors, Bev was already making a sprint for the door.

She’d never been able to handle the cold, in all the years he’d known her. But for a woman who was so clearly in the wrong line of work, she had been doing it for an absurdly long time. Longer than Will, and most of the other staff for that matter.

And she was the only one who’d ever made a real effort to get to know him. Zeller would share a beer with him on a good day, and Price was pleasant enough. But the fact is, it was definitely an _effort_ to really get through to Will Graham. He knew it himself.

“They’re saying it’s gonna be a big one tonight. You seen those clouds?”

“Yeah.”

“There’ll be some trees down tomorrow.”

“So long as they’re not on the freeway we’ll manage.”

“Shit, yeah.”

The door was beginning to rattle open, so she locked it, and scrambled to reorganise the piles of leaflets that had been sent flying across the room. Will left her to it, knowing she’d just yell at him for putting them in the wrong place, or one millimetre too far to the left, or some other idiosyncrasy, and disappeared into the staff room to put some water on to boil.

“Good thing you and FBI guy missed it. What does he actually do?”

“Psychology.”

“Hell was he out here for?”

“Said something about profiling. If that means anything to you.”

“Not much.”

“But he’s a doctor of something so I’m not exactly gonna question his methods.”

“Medical doctor or PhD doctor?”

Will laughed.

“You really think I got that far? _Me?_ ”

"But you actually did talk?"

"Yes. We did talk."

"A conversation?"

"A conversation."

“So what the hell else were you talking about?”

“I dunno, the mutilated dead body?”

“Ah. Figures. Can I get a tea, Will?”

“Sure thing.”

“Use the good mug.”

Will rummaged in the cupboard for the tea.

“Which one’s the good mug?”

“ _Men_. I tell you.”

“They’re all good!”

“The one with Smokey on it!”

Even in the staffroom, sheltered as it was by the tree cover and windbreak of the visitor centre, the windows were starting to rattle. The rain was coming down hard now on the roof, and the sturdy little building was starting to shudder with the force of it.

The water finally began to boil, and Will made his own coffee.

“Will, are you driving home?”

“Yeah.”

“No chance.”

Will took a long look from the window.

“It can’t be that bad.”

“You’re insane.”

“It’s a truck. It’s built for this.”

“Not your hunk o’ junk.”

“Listen, if it ain’t broke.”

“It _is_ broke. That clutch is fucked. I’m surprised that baby’s road legal.”

“She does just fine.”

“Well, I wouldn’t want you driving in this, even if you had a damn military tank.”

“What’s my alternative?”

“There’s blankets in one of the cubbies back there. Find a couch. Have a slumber party.”

“What about you?”

“There’s a family staying in one of the cabins. Think I’ll take my car and check on them, then just hunker down in one of the other cabins.”

“You sure you don’t want me to go?”

“You don’t want to go.”

“I know. But still.”

“You took the French guy for me. I owe you one.”

“Bev. He was definitely not French.”

“Really?”

Will took her tea out to her, which she held up to her face and left there for a moment, trying to gain as much warmth from it as possible.

“I was so convinced he was French.”

“Don’t ever go to Europe.”

“They’d deport me.”

“Yeah.”

She pointed to her mug.

“Can I take this to go?”

“You’d better. Before it gets any worse out there.”

“Screw the truck, we’re gonna need Noah’s ark at this rate.”

“Good luck.”

Bev swung her car keys around her index finger and headed miserably out into the rain, tea sloshing over her hand as she went.

Will went to search for the blankets. Bev wasn’t lying, they were there, stuffed behind a box of canned soup and an old container of bear mace. But they were dry, which is more than he’d expected, even if they still smelt vaguely like wet dog.

He hadn’t even thought about the dogs. He hoped his neighbours back home would have the sense to feed them. If not, he thought, they could survive one night. He’d cook them all a steak as an apology. The most wonderful thing about dogs. Very easy to buy their forgiveness. 

Will kicked off his boots. Left everything else on, wrapped himself in in the cleanest blanket and threw himself down onto the couch.

He liked having the rain. The white noise.

Despite the couch springs digging into his spine, and the blanket scratching his skin, sleep came easily.

He woke up delirious.

For a moment, he was somewhere else. He was cold. Damp.

He was drowning in dirt. Leaf mulch.

Rotting.

And there was someone holding him down.

But he couldn’t see them.

He couldn’t make out their face.

Their eyes.

Just a wide mouth, that opened.

And let out a scream.

Like a coyote.

Like something that was starving.

And then he was on the floor of the staff room.

About three feet from the couch.

Like he’d thrown himself, which he didn’t remember. 

Cold. Damp.

His head hurt.

He scrambled for his watch, holding it up to the light of the window to read it.

It was still hours until dawn.

He took a deep inhale, and let it out as,

_“Fuck.”_

He laid his head back.

Listened.

Somewhere, something was crying in the storm.

Low. And loud. And terrified.

Not a coyote.

Not a sound like that.

It sounded like a dog.

A little lap dog.

Something that wouldn’t last an hour out there.

_“Fuck.”_

He got up. Half-awake. Not thinking.

Didn’t think to find a jacket. A coat.

Didn’t think to realise his shirt was soaked through. Just ran.

Only barely thought to grab his keys. And then his flashlight.

His gun was in the truck. In the lot. Too far. He left it.

The first part of the trail was wide. Open. Moonlight came through the branches and just barely lit his way.

Things scurried, out of sight. No dog.

He started calling. The same way he called strays in when they stepped out in the road.

Just whistling. Noise. Anything high pitched.

He’d call, then listen.

Run a little further.

Call, then listen.

No dog.

_“Fuck.”_

The crying had died down to a whimper. And with the wind tearing the trees apart it was impossible to tell where it was coming from. Even how far away it was.

The dog could be under his feet.

Or it could be as far out as the freeway.

He called again, louder.

Started running.

Took a turn he didn’t remember.

Another turn. And another.

Stepped out off the path and into ankle-depth leaf mulch, kept running. Stumbling.

Couldn’t tell if he was any closer.

Couldn’t hear anything anymore.

Just howling.

Nothing but howling.

Had to stop.

Breathe.

He was crying from the wind. His head was swimming.

Something cold touched his leg.

A dog.

A big dog.

Crying.

Like a puppy.

Will reached down. Let the dog sniff his hand. Felt for a collar but found nothing.

Could barely tell what he was looking at. What colour it was. If it was hurt.

He could breathe.

He scratched the dogs ears. Under his chin. He was soaked through.

“Who left you out here in the rain, bud?”

The dog pulled away. Anxious. Started to run back into the woods.

Howling. Whining.

Will following behind, stumbling on tree roots. Falling into hidden ditches. Trying to call it back.

_Fuck._

Until he heard it stop. Close.

Couldn’t see it. Could just hear it. Panting. At his feet.

Reached forward. Couldn’t find it, and grabbed at a tree trunk. Soaking. Warm.

He fumbled for his flashlight. Swept for the dog and found it, lying at the base of the tree.

It was ok. Not hurt. Just scared. He reached out to hold it. Calm it down.

It was a white dog. Used to be a white dog.

It’s face was red.

Where he’d touched it, it was red.

His first thought was that he must be bleeding. Must have cut himself when he fell.

Nothing hurt. He wasn’t hurting. He wasn’t bleeding.

Something was running down the tree.

Black. Thicker than water.

He swept the flashlight upwards.

Saw flesh. Arms.

Feet.

Something carved.

Butchered.

And beside him, the white dog.

Staring.

Crying.

Chewing.


	5. Americano

A tree had come down on the freeway. A big one. A Virginia Pine.

It took five hours for the cops to come down from Washington, and by the time they had, the storm was over.

That morning, they could begin to survey the damage. If the news was to be believed, the debris had travelled as far as Dumfries and Montclair. Fallen logs had blocked traffic. Crushed parked cars. Rain had swelled the Quantico up to the top of its banks and caused the ground to slide when it receded. Part of a muddy bank had collapsed across one of the park’s lowland trails, and it was looking like they would have to shovel it away before it opened up in the Spring season.

But for now, the damage from the storm itself was inconsequential.

Bev met the first few cop cars at the gate, mid-morning.

She’d put Will in the staff room, with a space heater.

There had been offers to drive him home. Call him a taxi. An ambulance. Anything.

He insisted on staying.

“Until they find the dog.”

Bev had packed up and driven the family in the cabin to the station that at first light, taken the back roads to cut around the freeway when she saw the traffic piling up. They had two young kids. They were tired. Confused.

She spent the whole drive silently thanking God they hadn’t seen Will.

Bloody. And falling apart at her cabin door.

He must have walked for miles.

“Are you sure I can’t call anyone for you?”

The cops were milling in the parking lot, waiting for Price to show up and lead them to the scene, since they had to reach it on foot and it was so removed from the marked trails.

Bev was doing her best to keep them outside. Away from Will. At least for as long as she could.

He was slumped on the couch. Had been for a few hours at that point. Face in front of the space heater. Hair slicked to his forehead with sweat, but body still frozen to the bone. His voice grated in his throat when he spoke. And his mouth tasted bitter. Metallic.

“I don’t have anyone to call.”

Bev sighed. She lowered her voice.

“No-one?”

“Unless- my neighbours.”

“Your neighbours? Why would-”

“I need them to let the dogs into the yard. But I don’t know their number.”

“Do you know their name?”

“No.”

“Alright.” She shook her head. “Alright. I’ll look in the phone book.”

“Thank you.”

There was a long, still silence, broken only by the soft flicking of pages and the mumbling of officers in the lot. Occasionally, the sound of a vehicle pulling in, or going out.

Bev found the page. Folded the corner, and took it over to the landline. As she was clicking the numbers in, Will strained his ears to catch the conversations in the lot.

Price and Zeller had arrived. He could hear them doing their briefings. The Washington cops were largely city based, so were rarely given bear and coyote training. It was up to the rangers to make sure they didn’t get themselves killed. Then, he could hear the cops begin their own briefing. Don’t move anything. Don’t touch anything. If you find anything, leave it where it is.

Will had spent over an hour scrubbing his hands in the sink. Of course they knew what had happened. He’d told them already. But every time, they seemed unhappy with the answer.

He knew they’d ask again.

Zeller was starting to take a group down now. Someone said they were waiting for the people from the FBI. Still stuck on the freeway.

The conversation descended back into murmuring.

Bev put the phone back on the wall.

“Will? Did you hear all of that?”

“No.”

“She said she’s heading over to let them out now. Is it obvious where their food is?”

“Yeah. They’ll probably have let themselves into it already.”

“Alright.”

She curled the wire around her finger. Choosing her words carefully.

“They haven’t found a dog, Will.”

He looked up. Met her eyes.

“Or any sign there ever was one.”

“I saw it, Bev. I _touched_ it.”

“I believe you. I do, it’s just-”

“If there wasn’t one, then how did I know where the body was.”

“Yeah. That’s kinda- well, they’re talking about it.”

Will tucked his knees up into him. Curled up in a corner of the couch.

“Don’t get me wrong, we both know how sounds get weird out there, maybe you heard something else or-“

“There was a dog.”

“…ok.”

Beverly sighed. She nodded.

“Ok. I’ll see if we can put some traps out. That might catch it if it gets hungry enough.”

“Might catch the killer too.”

“Yeah. That would be nice and easy, wouldn’t it?”

They watched through the window, following the slow stream of uniformed officers disappearing through the tree line. Zeller leading. Hand gripping his gun.

“Follow the leader. Just like camp, isn’t it? ”

She almost got a smile out of him, and taking it as a good sign, she dragged a chair over and sat, with a sigh.

“Damn. I miss those kids.”

“Yeah.”

He was quiet, for a moment.

“How was the family in the cabin?”

“They were ok. Bit shaken, but otherwise just tired.”

“Do they know about-”

“No. I didn’t tell them. Just said we should get them home while the wind wasn’t so bad.”

“For the best. Too young to really understand, weren’t they? The kids.”

“Yeah. They’ll see it on the news. If the cops release it.”

Will nodded. He closed his eyes for a second.

“I think I owe you my life, Bev.”

“Pretty sure I owe you mine. They were saying it seemed like the killer was there right up until you found it. Like maybe you scared him off.”

“I was calling for the dog. So yeah. Maybe.”

“Well, I’m glad you did. Can’t imagine what could’ve happened if he’d hung around. Probably would’ve found the cabins, I bet. And then what?”

“I dunno. He doesn’t seem like he’s going for easy kills.”

“What do you mean?”

Will swallowed, thickly. He pinched the bridge of his nose.

“You should’ve seen how high up it was in that tree.”

Bev shuddered.

“I don’t want to think about it.”

“Me neither.”

There was a crunching of gravel at the front door, and voices in the front office. Someone said ‘FBI’, and Bev got to her feet.

“Sorry kid. I don’t think you have a choice.”

Will scoffed. 

_"Kid."_

After a moment, there was a soft knocking at the door. A pause. Then a louder one. 

“I’ll deal with them.”

“Please.”

After two knocks and no response, the door was thrown open by a woman, who paused momentarily in surprise at the room being occupied, then took a long, serious look at both of them.

She was smartly dressed, not in uniform, but in a pressed suit and kitten heels. Her long-curled hair pulled back into a tight bun, the sort of hairstyle Bev would jokingly call a ‘face-lift’ bun, not that she needed it. And, she noticed, she had thrown a scarf over her shoulders, clearly having prepared more adequately for the weather than some of her uniformed colleagues. Either she was local, Bev thought, or women really did just have more sense.

“Are you Will Graham?”

He raised his hand in answer. Her severe tone dropped slightly.

“Dr Alana Bloom. I’m a psychologist, I’m here with the FBI.”

Bev leaned back against the sideboard.

“Another one?”

Bloom raised an eyebrow.

“Sorry?”

“We met your colleague a few days ago. The other doctor.”

“Lecter?”

“Yeah.”

Dr Bloom took a long breath in through her nose, as though she was attempting to maintain an air of professionalism.

“I’m very sorry to hear that.”

Will shifted on the couch, but said nothing. Bev continued for him. 

“Why?”

“Some people find he can be a bit of an- how do I say this...”

She smiled.

“An acquired taste.”

“You must know him well, then.”

“Oh, yes. I do. He was my lecturer at university.”

Beverly laughed, surprised.

“Small world.”

“Dr Lecter is one of the country’s leading forensic psychiatrists. So, no, not a small world. Just a very... _very_ small academic field."

Her face drew into a polite smile.

"Sorry I didn’t catch your-”

“Beverly. Katz.”

Dr Bloom shot Will a look.

“Could I speak to you outside, Miss Katz?”

“Sure.”

Will shifted again, until his back was to the door and his face was concealed in the couch cushions.

Bev closed the door behind her, quietly, with a click. 

The next thing Will knew for certain was the smell of coffee.

And the sense that someone else was in the room. But it wasn’t fear.

It didn’t feel like fear.

Just in the back of his head, the faint turning over of paper.

In his peripheral vision he could see the shape of a man, blurring at the edges from the light of the window, and the tears of sleep still settling in his eyes.

A figure that eventually clarified over the course of a few minutes, and became Dr Lecter. Sat across from the couch, one leg crossed over the other.

Flicking through an informational leaflet on the park’s tree maintenance.

He didn’t look up. But he smiled.

“Hello again, Will.”

Will sat up, with a groan. He rested his forehead on his hands.

“Morning.”

“I bought you something. You seem as though you may need it.”

He reached down into a leather satchel and produced a metal flask, which he placed into Will’s lap.

Will sipped it, unquestioningly.

“Coffee.”

“Real coffee. From a real coffee machine.”

Will pushed his tongue against his teeth. Tasted it. Savoured it.

Knowing, immediately, that he could never go back to the stuff in the can.

He smiled. Defeated.

“You’ve ruined me, Dr Lecter.”

“Not ruined, Will. Think of it as being…”

He took long a sip from his own flask.

_“…enlightened.”_

Will shook his head, and they drank. Before it got cold. 


	6. Pinot Noir

They sat for a while longer, silently. Enjoying the dregs, and tolerating the company.

Realising that eventually, they would have to start talking.

That he wasn’t just there for the coffee.

That Bev had told Dr Bloom who Will might talk to.

So they’d sent him.

And it was as though Lecter could see into his head and read his thoughts because he spoke. Like it was an answer to something that hadn’t quite been said.

“It seems I’m the devil you know, Mr Graham.”

Will hummed.

“Did they let you see him?”

Lecter savoured the silence a little longer before he answered. As though Will had spoken just slightly too soon.

“No. They took him away surprisingly quickly.”

“They’d better have. Pretty sure the entire state’s police force was in the parking lot.”

“They did a full comb of the area, apparently. That’s why they needed the numbers.”

“Did they find anything?”

“Nothing.”

“No dog?”

Lecter leaned back, slowly. He intertwined his fingers over his knee.

“Do you like dogs, Will?”

“More than people.”

“Yes. I think that’s quite reasonable. Especially given what you’ve seen today.”

Will leaned forwards. Momentarily. Urgent.

“Dr Lecter, the dog was _eating_.”

“Eating?”

“Raw meat. Bloody. Like someone had thrown him a steak.”

“And you think it was-”

“I don’t know what to think.”

“There weren’t any bite marks. No sign of any animal taking an interest. Just like the first one.”

“That’s what I mean. It was like someone had fed it to him.”

He leaned back again. Lecter remained still.

“The officers on scene said the body looked as though it had been fileted. I wonder if that’s how you’d describe it, Will.”

“Not fileted.”

“No?”

“More like it was…sliced. Like bread. Like they’d cut him into mouthfuls.”

“That’s a very specific choice of word.”

“It’s the only way I can describe it.”

“They also said ‘crucified’. Is that correct?”

“I don’t know.”

Lecter remained silent. An invitation for Will to continue.

“I mean they’d strung him up. In the tree. With his arms out, and he had nails in his wrists but they weren’t holding him up. They knew nails wouldn’t hold him. That’s not why they were there, it was more like they were…tapping him. Or something.”

“I wonder if that was why he was so high up.”

“Why?”

“He’s decanting the blood. Allowing it to flow. Oxidise. Like wine.”

Will stared in disbelief.

“You think he’s _drinking their blood_? Like, what-?”

“He’s not a vampire, Will. He’s a man. Only a man.”

“What’s he doing it for, then?”

“We haven’t figured that out yet.”

“Then what exactly do you know? Because as far as I can tell that’s two bodies, and absolutely no fucking leads.”

Lecter paused. He reached down into his bag and produced a folded newspaper, which he held out to Will.

Will took it. Hesitated.

“What does it say?”

“Easier to just read it.”

“Are there pictures?”

“Not of the body. No.”

Will unfolded it, slowly. Watching for a change in Dr Lecter’s expression, but he was unreadable.

He turned his attention to the paper. Groaned.

_“_ ‘The Quantico Butcher _._ ’ Really?”

“That was some artistic liberty on the journalist’s part.”

“They shouldn’t give them names.”

“Why?”

“Venerates them. It’s like a serial killer’s sainthood.”

“I couldn’t agree more. But unfortunately the public laps it up.”

“Clearly.”

Will continued through the article. Paused on a line.

“They’ve identified the victims.”

“Yes.”

“Both of them?”

“I said they moved quickly, didn’t I?”

“How?”

“Dental records. Unpopular people, dentists, but invaluable in situations like these.”

Will folded the paper back up. Passed it back.

Lecter took it, with a nod.

“Well?”

“Well what.”

“What’s missing?”

“How would I know?”

“You do know. You just don’t want to say it.”

“It’s hardly my job, is it?”

“Think about it, Will.”

Lecter held his stare.

“Two men. Different ages. Different jobs. From across different state lines. Few friends, very few close family, if any. Unmarried. Not only unmarried, but single. Notoriously single.”

He paused.

“And both willing to follow a strange man into the woods. Even in the worst storm in living memory. What could possibly link them, Will?”

“Why are you asking me.”

“Because I want to know if you came to the same conclusion I did.”

“Why. What’s it got to do with me. This isn’t _about_ me.”

“None of my colleagues have. Yet. But I think you have.”

“I’ve already said. I don’t know what I think.”

“You do about this.”

“And, if it’s wrong? I sully the reputation of two dead men who’ve suffered enough as it is.”

“If I wasn’t also concerned about that, I would have told the police already.”

Lecter leaned forwards. Close enough for the light from the heater to cast shadows across his face.

“Sometimes, we all have to accept some uncomfortable truths, Will. Without judgement. Without discretion. We have to find solace in the cold comfort of fact, and nothing more.”

Will tapped his finger on his top lip, in a nervous pulse. He took a long breath in.

“They were gay.”

“Yes.”

Lecter smiled. Softened his expression. As if Will had passed some kind of test.

“I think they were.”

“That’s why he’s targeting them.”

“It’s too clear a link to ignore, certainly.”

“So he’s a prude. Making his judgement on their sex lives.”

“Perhaps. I’m not sure it’s judgement. Are you?”

“Why else would you kill a man like that.”

“Exactly. Why would you not just kill him, but crucify him? Or walk miles along a riverbank just to place him in the most perfect, most beautiful spot? Why would you go to all that effort - all that risk - when you could just throw him by the side of the freeway?”

“Veneration.” Will swallowed. “He loves them. Doesn’t he?”

“He _worships_ them, Will.”

A pause. Lecter sighed.

“You understand now why I haven’t brought this before my colleagues at the FBI.”

“Yes.”

“I wouldn’t want this investigation to devolve into the whims of personal morality.”

“No.”

“So for now I shall be giving them time. To see if they can also put it together. I think then, they may be more professional about it.”

Lecter stood. Began to organise his belongings.

“I thought they’d sent you to question me, Dr Lecter.”

“Is that not what I just did?”

“You didn’t learn anything about me.”

“Didn’t I?”

He filed the leaflet into his bag.

“You’re a smart man, Mr Graham. I had faith that we would be able to see eye to eye.”

He reached out his hand. After a moment, Will realised he was asking for the empty flask.

“Thank you for the coffee.”

“I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

“Shame I can’t afford a machine.”

“Well, mine is always open to you, should you fancy making the trip.”

Will felt something pulsing in his throat. Beating. Like a little trapped bird.

“Where did you say your office was again?”

“Montclair. A stone’s throw from the lake.”

“Oh. Do you fish?”

“I have…attempted. Rarely successfully. I do feel quite guilty for buying fish, given the location.”

“I’ll teach you, then. If I’m in the area. Consider it payment for the coffee.”

Lecter pulled on a jacket. Tilted his head, with a smile.

“Wonderful. I shall look forward to it.”

He turned to leave.

“Oh, Will. There is one more thing we found about the victim.”

“That latest one?”

“Yes.”

He paused.

“We’ve heard from multiple sources that he was particularly close to his dog.”

Will clenched his jaw.

“What kind of dog?”

“Big white mutt. Rescued, so had some attachment issues. Or so we’ve been told.”

“That’s why the killer fed him.”

Lecter hummed in agreement.

“Perhaps he saw in the dog an equally worthy devotion.”

Will nodded. Grimly.

“I saw it. It’s out there. Wild”

“Then, Will, I suggest you catch it quickly.”

Lecter stepped over the threshold and through the door. He spoke, without turning.

“Or else he might get a taste for it.”


	7. Earl Grey

By mid-week, a polar front had moved in.

The thermometer on the visitor centre wall was regularly reading well below freezing, and Will noticed one morning that even sat in the cab of his truck, he could see his own breath hanging in the air. 

They had started shovelling the landslide away from the lowland river path, but as it came up to midday they threw in the towel. Beyond the loose top layer, the mud was heavily packed and frozen, and they’d either have to chip away at it with picks, or wait for the weather to warm up.

They settled on the latter. Will drove them back, Price riding shotgun and Zeller, begrudgingly, riding in the back with the dog beds.

Bev, of course, hadn’t joined them in the first place. As they thawed out in the staff room, Will could hear her stapler working overtime on the other side of the wall. Zeller rolled his eyes.

“Any excuse to not get her toes cold, right?”

Price snorted, pulling off his layers of socks and putting them on the radiator to dry out.

“That woman staples like she’s performing a national service.”

“She once gave me a two-page document with fifteen staples in it.”

“Fuck off.”

“She did! I could’ve melted it down for scrap.”

Will kicked off his boots.

“Careful, or she’ll turn the stapler on you next.”

“Didn’t she talk about getting a staple gun for the noticeboard?”

“We told her the budget didn’t cover it.”

“How much could it be – like fifty bucks?”

“Yeah, we were lying, Will.”

“We were scared for our damn lives.”

The sound of the office chair scraping backwards shut them up immediately, and Bev poked her head round the door.

“How’s the trail looking, fellas?”

“Cold.”

“No shit. You made a dent in it?”

“Nope.”

“Well, sorry I couldn’t be out there with you boys. You know how much I’d have loved to help.”

Zeller and Price shot each other a look, but knew better than to comment.

“I don’t think anything’s gonna be shifting that for a while, Bev. May as well close it off til we can get some tougher machinery down.”

“Yeah, figures. And I thought I told you to take a sick week, Will.”

Will smiled.

“I’m fine. Gotta get back on the horse, right.”

Bev sniffed. She looked down her nose at him, and shook her head with a sigh.

“Bri, that better not be your socks on my radiator.”

“You think I’d wear those?”

“They’re stinking up the whole building.”

“They’re not mine!”

“Has anyone put some water on yet?”

“Is that Bev for ‘I’d like a cup of tea please, Brian Zeller’?”

“Oh, if you’re making one that would be lovely thanks, Bri.”

Price laughed.

“I’ll take a coffee, if you’re making one.”

Zeller threw his hands up in defeat.

“Anyone else want coffee? Will?”

“I’m good. Thanks.”

Bev settled down in an armchair, tucking her hands under her arms to stay warm.

“Can’t believe how many folks we’ve had in.”

“You’d think they’d be sacred off.”

“Yeah. Turns out people are freaks.”

She chewed on her nail.

“They were bringing their kids and everything. Whole families.”

“Nice day out. Serial killer on the loose.”

“I blame the news.”

Price hummed into his coffee.

“Same here. Take me back to the good old days when journalists were journalists, not fiction writers.”

“You seen the latest?”

“No?”

Zeller handed Bev her tea, and perched on the sideboard.

“They traced the second guy to some fucking gay bar in Chesapeake.”

“Chesapeake?”

“I know. Of all places, huh.”

“So of course that’s brought the tabloids flocking. Found some distant family member of the first one, who was all too happy to claim that he was a raging homosexual too.”

“Jesus.”

“Yeah.”

There was a long silence. Will swallowed, dryly.

“What else were they saying about them?”

Bev sniffed. She unfolded her arms.

_“Will-”_

“What else were they saying?”

Zeller cleared his throat.

“That uh- that they were promiscuous. They slept around. They were drug users. They did- you know. Party drugs.”

He paused.

“They were claiming that the first guy was a drag queen. Or something.”

“And people really believe all that shit?”

He shrugged.

“Someone’s got to. Guess it means we know who he’s targeting though.”

“Yeah. But still.”

Bev drained her mug. She set it down by the sink.

“Everybody’s got dirty laundry. Ain’t right to air it out for them.”

“Depends how dirty it is.”

Bev shot a look at Price’s socks.

“You make a compelling point, Zeller.”

“I’m full of compelling points, Katz.”

Bev rolled her eyes.

“Well I’ve got some compelling paperwork to finish. You guys gonna keep slacking?”

“I’ve got a compelling coffee to finish.”

“Sure you do. Will, if you’re not busy could you take some of these traps out?”

He nodded, and began to lace his boots back up. Price raised his eyebrows.

“Still no luck with the dog?”

“He’ll be feeling the cold by now. Should make things easier.”

“Here’s hoping.”

Bev helped Will load the traps onto his truck bed. He hopped in the front seat, and she leaned over to the driver’s side window.

“What did you talk about?”

“With who?”

“Will. You know who.”

“Dr Lecter? Nothing.”

“Two hours of nothing?”

“I don’t know, Bev.”

“Dr Bloom was surprised. She said he doesn’t usually talk that long.”

“Strange.”

“I had to tell her the same about you.”

“He was just doing his job. Learning about me.”

She gave him a long look.

“Well, I wonder if he can give me some classes on that.”

He smiled.

“I’ll get those traps set down, Bev.”

“Alright. Stay safe.”

“You too.”

Will pulled away, and Bev watched him go from the lot.

Hands tucked into her coat. Shaking her head at the sky.


	8. Gullet

Will took the freeway home. The busted little heater in his truck working as hard as it could.

He knew the backroads were quicker. Quieter. But night was setting in earlier and earlier every day, and his headlights were on the brink too. He needed to change the bulbs but it kept slipping his mind. Things kept slipping his mind.

And tonight, the darkness was making his pulse jump in his throat.

Flapping. Like he’d been keeping a little bird in his mouth and he’d swallowed it, without realising. And now it was fighting to get out.

He looked down. Somehow, he’d turned off the freeway at his exit. He’d even indicated.

He gripped the wheel.

_“Keep your damn head on, Will.”_

Kept his eyes on the road. Blinding himself on the streetlights, just to stay present.

Breathing in through his nose.

Digging his thumb nail into his palm.

Still trying to swallow his heart.

He tuned the radio.

Tuned it until Joe Simon came crooning out.

_‘But you wanted my mind, yeah.’_

He sat back. Satisfied. Tapped his thumbs on the wheel as he pulled into a familiar road.

_‘Your love scared me to death, girl.’_

The tree cover came back over, plunging the road into darkness and only occasionally opening up to flood the cab with cold, still light.

_‘Oh it’s the chokin’ kind.”_

He slowed to a crawl. Nodded to his neighbour, sat out on her porch. She nodded back.

He pulled a face at the crunching sound the clutch made as he came to a stop, and sat a while longer. Keys in the ignition. Letting the final strains of the song play out.

“That sounded healthy. You got tape holding that thing together or something?”

Will laughed, sharply. In the corner of his eye, he could see her smoke rising from the glow of the porch light. 

“Thanks for taking care of the boys, Molly. I owe you one.”

She smiled into her cigarette.

“No worries.”

“They behave?”

“They’d got into their food bag.”

“I can’t be mad at that, can I?”

“Nah. Tell you what, though.”

She took another drag.

“That Winston’s a sweetheart.”

“What’d he do?”

“Sat there at the door all night. Waitin’. Wouldn’t even touch his food.”

“As if I didn’t already feel guilty. If you’d let him, he would’ve run his little legs all the way up the freeway and found me himself.”

She laughed.

“More than my husband would’ve done for me.”

“He giving you trouble again?”

“There’s a Monroe quote, Will. I think about it all the time.”

She put out her cigarette on the wall behind her.

“Dogs never bite me. Just men.”

Will smiled, gently. He put his keys in his front door.

“Well. I’m heading in.”

She waved him away.

“Guess I should too then, huh.”

She side-eyed the silhouette of her husband in the kitchen window.

Sighed. Her breath turning to mist in the cold.

“G’night, Will.”

“Night Moll. See you around.”

“You’d better.”

She disappeared into her house.

Will kicked off his boots in the doorway. He reached for the light, and let the door click shut behind him.

Usually, he’d keep it on the latch.

Tonight, he locked it.

Three of the dogs were asleep in the hearth. Their ears pricked at the sound of the door, and came trotting up to greet him.

Will laughed.

“All’s forgiven then?”

The fourth appeared from the darkness of the kitchen.

Winston.

Staring.

Will threw his coat down on the couch.

“All but one.”

Winston followed him, at a distance, as he switched on the kitchen light and fumbled around with pots and pans. He found whatever meat in the fridge that was still good and chopped it up. He regularly bought cheap cuts from the butcher for the dogs. Oxtail, livers, chicken necks. That sort of thing.

Threw in some barley, and a cup of chicken stock.

He lit the gas, and let it simmer. Until it started to smell good, and the dogs came, tails wagging, up to the door.

He took a spoon of it. Blew on it so it wasn’t too hot, and walked towards the dogs, who jostled hungrily.

He stepped past them.

He held the spoon out to Winston.

“How is it, bud?”

Winston’s ears pricked.

He turned his back.

Will stayed. Still.

Silent.

Winston huffed. He padded in circles. He twitched his ears.

He started to step backwards into Will’s orbit.

Looking away. As if he thought, if he couldn’t see Will, then Will couldn’t see him.

Winston took the food.

And, quietly, he put his head in his lap, with a soft sigh.

Will scratched his ears.

“That good, huh.”

He fed the rest of the dogs, and poked around in his cupboards for anything else that was edible.

The only thing he felt he could manage was a can of Campbell’s.

He heated it up. Put it in a bowl. Made the effort.

But when he actually sat down to eat it that he couldn’t bring himself to stomach any more than a couple of bites.

The more he tried, the more he grew convinced that there was something stuck in his throat.

In the place where his heart had been. 

He started to feel like he was choking.

He panicked.

Put his hands up to his throat.

Felt something in there.

_Moving._

He put his fingers down his throat.

Eyes watering. Struggled.

And pulled out a feather.

Then another. And another.

A fistful of them.

And then he realised he couldn’t breathe.

He couldn’t breathe.

And all he could feel was flesh.

He was suffocating. 

Inside the throat of something else.

And he couldn’t tell if it had meant to swallow him or if it had just wanted to keep him there.

In it’s mouth.

Between its teeth.

He woke up tearing at his throat.

Still at the table.

Winston whining at his feet.

Soup now completely cold.

He sat down on his bathroom floor, and threw up in the toilet.

His eyes were still watering.

There was still something in there.

He grabbed his flashlight.

Pulled his mouth open and tried to stare down his throat in the mirror.

Nothing.

His mouth. His teeth. His tongue. His breath, fogging up the glass.

He swallowed.

The feeling didn’t go away.

He knelt, on the cold linoleum, and tried to reason with himself.

That he just needed to sleep.

He just needed to rest. For a few hours.

He just needed to stop thinking.

He believed he was choking. So he was.

That was all.

_That was all._

He sobbed.

Momentarily afraid that he was going to die here. Curled up on his bathroom floor.

With the door open.

So that when his dogs could hungry enough, they could eat him.

And maybe, eventually, someone would call the cops.

Maybe Molly. If she didn’t see him for a while. Maybe Bev.

One of them would realise.

And they’d find just enough of him to put in a shoebox.

And bury him in the backyard.

Like a runt.

He heard Winston padding into the bathroom.

A cold nose pressed into his neck.

And he could think. Briefly.

He stumbled out, into the front room.

Reached for his keys. His coat. Told the dogs to stay.

Struggled three times to unlock his own door. His hand was shaking as he slid the bolt open.

He found his truck. Feeling his way in the dark.

Slumped over in the front seat for a moment. Engine on.

Head reeling.

By the time he hit the freeway his vision was blurring at the edges.

There was something in the air.

He couldn’t tell if he was tasting it or smelling it.

But it was like something had died. And was rotting.

He wondered if he needed to pull over and throw up again.

He looked up.

Something was in the highway.

Stood.

Staring.

A buck.

Will hit the brakes.

Came skidding to a stop the middle of the lane. Closing his eyes.

Bracing.

No impact.

There was no deer.

Never was one.

_"Keep your damn head on."_

He gasped for breath.

A semi laid on it’s horn at him as it rattled past.

He put his foot down. Kept going until the first Washington exit.

Turned off at Montclair, followed the streetlights.

Scanning the parked cars.

Followed the still lake round. Reflecting the lights back at him in the darkness. 

What was in the daylight a calm boating lake, now looked to him like a bottomless pit. 

The deepest depths of the ocean. 

He kept driving. 

Vision swimming. 

Until he saw topiary.

A neat, tree lined drive.

And a stone-grey European car.


	9. Hors-d'oeuvres

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m definitely overdue saying another immense thank you to everyone reading this hot mess. Apologies for not replying to comments as consistently as I really should, but it really does mean the absolute world to me that so many people have read this and supported it. And just wanted to mention that I'll do my best to keep getting chapters out over the next few weeks but there may be some delays. Thanks again, and I hope you enjoy!

“Say ‘ah’.”

Dr Lecter compressed Will’s tongue with what looked like a coffee stirrer. Will tried not to throw up on his expensive-looking carpet.

He’d had the thought, as he stumbled up to his front door, that he was lucky to find Lecter at his office. It was now the early hours of the morning, and he hadn’t thought about his plan if that wasn’t the case, as he didn’t know where he actually lived. He supposed he could sleep in his truck, and try to convince the doctor that he wasn’t a complete psycho when he discovered in the morning that the man he’d met twice was camping in his front yard.

Or else take the freeway home. But even sitting there, delirious, he knew he should never have driven in the first place.

He ignored the doorbell and hammered on the door.

Above him, the building loomed. Grand. Grander than anything he was used to. The doorway was dripping with climbing wisteria and trailing ivy, but on closer inspection they were choreographed. Placed, meticulously. Trained to frame the doorway in just the right way.

A small marble statue of a male figure stood, poised, preening, on the lawn. And a small, metal plaque by the door read

_‘Dr H. Lecter. MD, PhD, FACP.’_

Through the fog in his brain, he remembered Bev asking if Lecter was a medical or PhD doctor.

He almost felt like laughing.

Of course. _Both._

Will didn’t hear the door open. He didn’t notice the porch light come on.

The first thing he saw was a pair of shoes.

“Will.”

It wasn’t a question. And his face gave away very little surprise at the sight of him.

Simply, a statement of the facts.

Lecter had shed his suit. His hair was still brushed back off his face, but it was newly washed, and he was stood in a shirt, no tie. Unbuttoned low enough to see dip at the base of his neck.

He didn’t look like he’d been sleeping.

Behind him, a long, lavish hallway stretched backwards, dimly illuminated in golden light.

Will had expected something more like a dentist’s office.

“I’m so sorry. I know it’s late.”

Lecter cut him off, with a smile.

“Not at all. My office is always open for friends.”

Will scoffed.

“I’m hardly your friend.”

“What else could you be? At this time of night.”

“I think I’m going insane, Dr Lecter.”

The doctor nodded. He stepped backwards, and held the door open for Will.

“Well then. You should probably come in.”  
  


_“Ahhhh.”_

Will was perched on Lecter’s desk. Stick still in his mouth.

In his other hand, Lecter had a small light, that he was using to see down Will’s throat.

He hummed.

Finally, he removed his hands and stepped back.

Will swallowed.

“Well?”

Lecter paused. He removed his plastic gloves and threw them into a wastepaper basket below his desk.

“Well, I suspect I know the cause.”

Will leaned on his elbows.

“What is it?”  
  


“I believe the accepted clinical term would be an ‘acute stress reaction’.”

He inhaled, sharply.

“But, since we’re outside of my office hours, let’s just call it a good old-fashioned nervous breakdown.”

Will put his head in his hands.

“I’m guessing that means there’s nothing in there.”

“Nothing. All very healthy.”

He sniffed. His mouth twitched.

“Then why can I still _feel_ something?”

Lecter took a seat. He motioned for Will to take the chair opposite.

“Do you mind if I ask you some questions, Will?”

Will sat, heavily.

“Go ahead. Psychoanalyze me.”

“Psychoanalysis is what I did over coffee, Will. This is psychiatry.”

“That’s what you were doing?”

“And it was a conversation. I find the two are rarely mutually exclusive.”

“But they are here?”

“In this office, yes.”

“Alright.”

He settled back into the chair. Lecter reached for the pad of paper.

“Do you have a history of mental illness, Will?”

“No.”

“You’ve never seen a psychiatrist before?”

“No.”

“You’ve never been institutionalised for any reason?”

“No.”

“Is there any history of mental illness in your family?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

Pen scratched over paper for a minute or so, and they were both silent.

“When would you say this breakdown started?”

“I haven’t been feeling right for a while.”

“In what way?”

“Kept losing track of time. Getting lost on trails I’ve walked a hundred times.”

“Give me a timeframe.”

“The last week or so.”

“Since you found the body?”

“Yes.”

“When did it start to get this bad?”

“Today.”

“What caused it?”

“What usually causes a breakdown?”

“Prolonged or increased periods of stress or anxiety. Trauma. Uncertainty. Would you say you experienced any of those?”

“Stress. Anxiety. Uncertainty.”

“Over what?”

“What I’m feeling.”

“Can you describe what you’re feeling right now, Will?”

“Physically, or emotionally?”

Lecter paused in his notetaking.

  
“Both. If you can.”

“I’m tired. My head hurts. My mouth tastes like vomit.”

“And emotionally?”

“Sick.”

“That’s still a physical sensation.”

“No. Not right now I feel…sick. Emotionally.”

“Would you say you are feeling confused? Disoriented?”

“Yes.”

“Would you say you are feeling anxiety?”

“Yes.”

“Fear?”

“Yes.”

“What are you afraid of right now, Will?”

“Right now?”

“Here. In this room. What are you afraid of?”

“You. Asking me questions.”

“Why are you afraid of that?”

“Because I don’t know what you’re thinking. About me. I don’t know what conclusions you’re drawing. I don’t know what the…what the _right answers_ are.”

“You are hyperaware of what others think about you.”

“Yes.”

“You are intensely afraid of judgement.”

“Yes.”

“Why do you think that is?”

“My whole life I have felt that the rest of the world are humans, but I…I am something more like a bug. Or a _germ_. Under a microscope. For all the world to scrutinise.”

“What do you think they would find, Will?”

Will hesitated. As though he was deciding how much truth he was willing to offer.

He swallowed.

“Something that should have been squashed. Under somebody’s boot.”

Lecter put down his pen.

He let the silence sit.

Will clenched his jaw.

“What do you think?”

“As a psychiatrist, I think you are suffering severe mental strain from consistent and extreme emotional suppression. I think a period of extreme stress has heightened this to unbearable levels, and your brain has decided that the only way to cope is to manifest it. Hence, the phantom sensation that there is something you are unable to swallow.”

He paused.

“And as your friend, I think you should stay off the road tonight.”

Will raised his eyes and shook his head, dismissively.

“What other choice do I have?”

“Stay here.”

“Don’t make me a burden on you. Any more than I already have been.”

“I have hours of work to catch up on. You’d only be keeping me company.”

He stood, filing the notebook away in his desk drawer.

“I can only apologise for the lack of beds. I don't usually cater to overnight guests.”

“It’s fine. I’m fine here.”

“If you’re sure?”

“I’m sure. Thank you.”

Dr Lecter settled back behind his desk, and began to flick through a manila folder, occasionally making a small note in pencil.

Will felt himself starting to drift off.

Lecter’s office was warmer than his own house. Somewhere, a clock was ticking steadily. And it was now just before dawn.

He rested his head on the armrest and tucked his legs up to his body.

“Can I ask a question?”

Lecter looked up.

“Ask away.”

“What does the _‘H’_ stand for? I saw it on your sign.”

There was a pause. The doctor put down his pencil.

“Well, we are friends, after all.”

He closed his desk drawer with a click.

“It’s Hannibal. As in, the Carthaginian general and statesman.”

“As in, the dude with the elephants.”

“Yes. The very same.”

Will laughed, muffled by the armrest.

“Your parents must have hated you.”

Lecter smiled back.

“They must have. I’m told I was an infuriating child.”

“What did you do?”

“I asked too many difficult questions.”

“You picked the right profession.”

“Clearly.”

Another silence set in. Outside, the sun was just rising over the lake, painting it red.

“Have you eaten, Will?”

No response.

Just the gentle rising and falling of Will’s shoulders.

Hannibal smiled.

Behind him, a long window flooded the room with soft light.

Casting his shadow across the floor.


	10. Fish and Loaves

Lake Montclair was manmade.

It was over a hundred acres across, and had been created by damming Powell’s Creek. During heavy storms, the water had to be drained back into the creek to avoid flooding the nearby houses.

In fact, all of Montclair was manufactured. During year or so of high school that Will did there, it had always struck him as a town that had just been taken out of the box and assembled. Like a two-dimensional cardboard set piece, that a strong enough gust of wind could have sent crashing down.

It was all fake.

But the lake was still beautiful at mid-morning.

Willows just touching the surface at the waters edge. The charming brick facades of the town just visible on the shore, and an immense sky rolling overhead.

Will had rolled his jeans up to his knees, and was stood barefoot on the shore, baiting his hook.

A few metres back, Lecter was sat in a freshly pressed shirt, with the radio on, watching Will in his peripheral vision.

“What are you hoping to catch?”

“Largemouth bass. Pickerel.”

Will paused, focusing on casting the line out.

“Maybe a Channel catfish if we’re lucky. Anything except a triploid carp.”

“Triploid carp?”

“People often think of them as an invasive species. They were imported from East Asia in the 30s. And they can live up to twenty years too, which is incredible for a lake fish.”

“Triploid, I presume, is in reference to their size.”

“Oh yeah, massive. Far bigger than anything you’d expect to find in a lake like this.”

“Then why not catch them? If they’re invasive.”

“Because they are one of the only fish that will happily eat only common lake vegetation their whole lives. Without them, the water gets overwhelmed with algae, and with no light the other fish get choked out.”

“No carp, no lake.”

“Exactly.”

“I imagine it’s a rather lonely life to be a carp.”

“A long way from home. Watching all your friends get eaten.”

“And wondering why you never seem to get caught.”

Will hummed.

The radio murmured softly behind him, punctuated by the calm rise and fall of the water on the banks.

Hannibal was unpacking boxes from his satchel.

“What’s that?”

“Breakfast.”

“You made breakfast?”

“The fish are eating, why not join them?”

“The fish are eating worms.”

“And that is how you catch a fish. I am trying to catch something far more complex.”

“Then what’s your bait, Hannibal?”

The doctor stood up, and walked to the water’s edge. He held out a plate to Will, piled high with warm bread.

“Flatbreads, bacon, clotted cream and fresh honey.”

Will met him at the shore. He sat, one hand still holding the fishing rod, the other tearing scraps from the bread, feet still in the cool water.

Lecter poured Will a mug of strong, black coffee from a flask and sat again, tuning the radio.

It was Sunday morning. Every station was hymns.

Will paused, mid sip.

“My dad used to sit me in front of the radio every Sunday. Made me sing and everything.”

“He was religious?”

“Increasingly. As he got sicker.”

He swirled the coffee around his cup.

“Cancer. Spread to his lungs.”

“I’m sorry for your loss, Will.”

“Not your fault. No one’s fault. Except maybe God.”

“How old were you?”

“Seventeen.”

“That must have had quite an effect on you.”

Will rolled a stone in his hand, thoughtfully.

“It must have done. All I remember is feeling anger.”

“Why?”

“He got into these…evangelists. Television personalities. You know the type. Gave them money. Wrote them letters. They all promised miracle cures, straight from the Lord. That kinda bullshit.”

He paused.

“He died hundreds of dollars in debt. Sat in his armchair. Television running up the electric bill. Never once doubting that God would cure him.”

“Then, were you angry at your father? Or angry at God?”

“When you’re seventeen, they’re interchangeable.”

They ate in silence for a while. Hannibal watching the sun climbing ever higher above the tree line, Will staring into the dregs of his coffee.

“He taught me how to fish. Used to take me along the Quantico on his days off. Course it was technically poaching but I didn’t know that then.”

“Is that why you went into the Parks service? Repentance?”

Will laughed.

“Maybe it was.”

He looked up.

“Do you do God? Wherever you’re from.”

“Lithuania was one of the last truly pagan countries in Europe, until it was forcefully Christianized.”

Will hummed, through a mouthful of bread.

“When?”

“The 14th Century. So, yes. We’ve believed in God for longer than America has existed.”

“Why did you leave?”

“Too much history.”

He smiled.

“And I did not want to become my father.”

Will raised his mug, grimly.

“Cheers.”

Something tugged on the end of the line and Will reeled in suddenly, spooking a nearby group of mallards who scattered into the air.

A small catfish writhed on the hook.

Will held it out to his companion.

“Care to do the honours?”

Hannibal smiled.

“Why don't you show me how it’s done, Will.”

Will nodded, and grabbed the fish by the tail and struck it’s head against a rock, three times, until it stopped moving. He watched it, for a moment, then smashed it one more time.

He wiped a speck of blood from the corner of his mouth, and turned, panting, back to Hannibal.

The doctor stared, coffee half to his lips. Will dangled it by the tail.

“You want me to show you how to gut it?”

“Please.”

By sundown, Will had filled a cooler box of fish for Hannibal.

Will had attempted a few times to teach him, showing him how to bait the hook, how to cast straight and how to reel in, how to kill it quickly. But though he had eventually caught a few small fries himself, Hannibal seemed to much rather prefer watching him work from the shore.

Will didn’t mind. He was a quiet companion, and seemed to enjoy silence as much as he did.

And silence with Dr Lecter was comfortable. It settled, gently, like a fog.

And by the time you found your way out, hours had passed.

They parted before it got dark, and Hannibal deemed Will fit to drive.

It dawned on Will later that perhaps Lecter had only taken him fishing to test him. To make sure he was stable. Capable.

He made his way onto the freeway with no issue, and felt confident enough to take a hand off the wheel to tune the radio.

Some stations were still playing hymns. He kept searching for something to cover the roaring of the heater.

It hissed and crackled, until the voice of the local news station emerged.

Smooth. Familiar.

He let it wash over him for a minute or so until he started to pick out the words.

_‘A third body found in the Prince William Forest National Park this morning…the killer dubbed The Quantico Butcher…ongoing investigation…’_

Something felt tight in his throat.

He swallowed.

Shook his head. Violently. Trying to clear it.

The road began to cut into the forest. The edges of the road thickened with large pine trees, and the dark spaces between them. There was no moon, and occasionally his headlights picked out a pair of reflective eyes in the distance, but what animal they belonged to, he couldn’t tell.

_‘Bodies mutilated…victim male, early-30s, dark hair….’_

He put both his hands back on the wheel. Kept his eyes forward. Steady. Stable.

Even as his world started to swim slightly at the edges.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw something at the side of the road. He turned his head. Half expecting it to disappear. To be a figment.

Two pairs of eyes stared back.

A lean, snarling coyote. Staring down bloody jowls.

And a large, white dog.

Stood together, still. Gentle.

In each other's orbit.

Circling a piece of roadkill.

Chewing.

The dog looked up.

Seemed to meet Will’s eyes as he passed.

Grinned.

And then they were in his rear-view mirror.

And there was something in his throat.

And the radio was playing hymns again.

_‘O taste the goodness of your God…’_


	11. Pot-au-feu

There was a car in the lot that Will didn’t recognise.

He’d turned up early, when it was barely light, having made the conscious choice to drive when the roads were as quiet as possible.

Bev’s big four-wheel drive was there, as expected, and in its shadow was something red, and absurdly clean.

Will sniffed, and turned the engine off.

One of the staff room curtain’s twitched, and the front office light came on as he opened the door.

Bev shuffled out from the back.

Her hair was uncharacteristically loose, and hanging in unwashed strands over her face.

She looked up, surprised to see him.

“Will, this isn’t your shift.”

“Couldn’t sleep. Though I’d come down and give you a break.”

She leant against the desk.

“You’re an angel, Will Graham. You know that?”

“Who’s car is that in the front?”

She cracked her neck with a grunt, and gestured into the staffroom.

“See for yourself. She wanted to talk to you too.”

Will stepped towards the door, and pushed it slightly ajar to peer in.

Dr Alana Bloom sat, cradling a mug of coffee.

She didn’t turn.

“I thought I heard you come in, Mr Graham.”

“It’s Will.”

She smiled.

“Will. Can I ask you some questions?”

“About what?”

“I think you can imagine.”

“Perhaps. But I find my imagination can be…overactive.”

She gestured for him to take a seat.

“You’ve met me previously of course, I’m Dr Alana Bloom with the FBI.”

“I remember.”

“I’m not sure if you heard, they found another body on Sunday.”

“I heard.”

“From who?

“Local radio.”

“Ah, I see.”

She took a long sip of her coffee.

“You’ll have to forgive me, I’ve been here for hours.”

“No worries.”

“Can I ask where you were yesterday, Will?”

“Am I a suspect, Dr Bloom?”

“We’re working on a few leads right now.”

“Am I one of them?”

Dr Bloom gave him a long, stern look.

“I’m not at liberty to say.”  
  


Will settled back in his chair.

“I was visiting my father’s grave.”

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Don’t be.”

“Where is he buried?”

“Under our old house, in the backcountry woods.”

“Quite a drive.”

“It’s not so bad.”

Bev leaned quietly against the doorframe, listening in.

“And when exactly did you make this journey?”

“I usually head down at dawn or so. So I can spend Sunday morning with him.”

“So yesterday morning, you were nowhere near Quantico Creek.”

“No.”

“Did you see anything suspicious in the area?”

“No. I’m not sure what would count as suspicious.”

“Were you alone, Will?”

“Yes.”

“Did you see anyone at all yesterday?”

“No.”

“You live alone?”

“I’ve got a pack of spoilt dogs. But that’s not what you meant, is it?”

“No girlfriend? Wife?”

“No.”

“Weird. Man your age. Stable job.”

Will smiled.

“I don’t think it’s that weird.”

Dr Bloom pursed her lips, and wrote something down.

“Is Dr Lecter married?”

She looked up.

“Dr Lecter? No. He’s not.”

“There you go, then. It’s not weird.”

“I don’t tend to base any of my ideas of normality on Dr Lecter.”

“You two don’t get along.”

Dr Bloom bristled.

“Dr Lecter and I often disagree over our working practices.”

“In what way?”

She sighed. As though the question was of the greatest inconvenience to her.

“I believe that a reasonable distance should always be maintained between the psychologist and the patient.”

“What does Dr Lecter believe?”

“Dr Lecter does not like to keep things at arm’s length. There is a certain, how should I say this…”

She hesitated.

“…a certain _intimacy_ to his practice. One which I cannot claim to agree with.”

Will swallowed.

“But does it work?”

She took a calculated breath.

“You have to understand, Will. I have studied forensic psychiatry for years, but Dr Lecter _wrote the book_. Multiple, in fact.”

“So you’re saying it must work.”

“It has to.”

“Then what’s stopping you from doing the same, Dr Bloom.”

She sniffed.

“I see no benefit in looking into my client, and finding myself.”

Dr Bloom stood, suddenly, and brushed down her blouse.

“Thank you for your time, Mr Graham.”

“Is that all?”

“That’s all. Thank you. Miss Katz, I’ll be in contact.”

Bev startled at her name.

“Oh. Yeah, course.”

“If anything comes up. If you remember anything, either of you.”

Dr Bloom shot Will a look, that lingered.

“Please do not hesitate to let me, or my _colleague_ , know.”

Will shifted. Uncomfortable with the eye contact.

“Thank you, Dr Bloom.”

She said nothing further, and made her way out into the lot, and into her red car, kitten heels clacking over the bare wooden boards.

Bev stared at Will.

There was a long silence.

“Why did you lie to her.”

“What do you mean.”

  
“I know you, Will Graham. And I knew your father.”

Will stiffened.

“Who didn’t?”

“You weren’t visiting him.”

“No. I wasn’t.”

Bev sighed. She nodded, suspicions confirmed. 

“Then where were you?”

“I went to see Dr Lecter.”

“Outside of the investigation?”

“Yes.”

“Will, you’re not supposed to-”

“Why do you think I lied, Bev? For the thrill of it?”

She scoffed, but didn’t argue.

“Why did you go?”

“Because I needed some help.”

“ _Help?_ Like, what-“

“I’ve been hallucinating shit.”

She paused. Her lips formed an ‘oh’.

“ _That_ kinda help.”

“Yeah.”

She let out another long sigh.

“I’m sorry I pried.”

“You were worried it was something worse.”

“Do you think it’s a stress thing?”

“He seems to think so.”

“Good. Well, not _good_ but, you know-”

“I know.”

“Alright.”

She pressed a splinter into the doorframe with her thumb, thoughtful.

“It was cancer, wasn’t it? Your father.”

“Yeah.”

“God. I remember. I used to go to his church. It was such a shock, he was-”

“He was a character.”

“That’s one word for it.”

Bev shook her head.

“I never even knew he had a kid. Not til I met you.”

“He didn’t like to mention it.”

“Why?”

“Not very Godly, is it? Funny little kid with no mother.”

“A father should still be proud of their son, surely?"

Will smiled, like he didn't want to answer. It didn't reach his eyes. 

“People always seem surprised that I'm Fred's son. As if there's another Graham in Virginia.”

"You look like him. A little."

"More and more every year."

"People still think he was a pillar of the community."

"I know."

“What do you think?”

“I think he’s dead. And I buried him.”

Bev took a breath. As though she were about to say something, but changed her mind.

“Some deer have been trampling the saplings, by the way.”

“About time for a cull?”

“About time. If you feel up to it.”

“I need some stress relief. Doctor's orders.”

Will took his gun off the wall, and headed out to his truck.

Bev put the water on to boil.

By the time her tea had brewed, she heard the first shots echo off the trees.

She fished the tea bag out, and took a long sip.

Until her mind stopped racing. 


	12. Cervelle de Veau

The Virginia winter came in fast, and sharp, and with little warning.

For weeks, most of the state lay buried under a sheet of thick, unforgiving snow, and before long even the folks with the toughest four-by-fours were fitting chains on their wheels, else you’d hit a patch of black ice and go sliding off the road and into the woods.

They’d taken the dog traps in before the first snow.

He wasn’t coming back in.

He was too smart for that now. Or too wild.

He’d tasted real meat.

And now, no matter how long they persisted, he wouldn’t eat dog food.

The stretch of interstate across the border from Triangle to Washington had become an ice rink, and they were playing announcements on the radio telling people to stay home and off the roads.

There was an eery, pervading quiet.

The world seemed to take a long, shuddering breath.

Dr Hannibal Lecter stood at his office window.

He looked out on the miles of untouched snow and still, icy lake, and stirred a teaspoon of honey into a mug of fresh, dark coffee.

He was stood so close that his breath steamed up the glass.

Behind him, in the darkness of the room, his client bounced his knee, agitated.

The soft clicking of his boot heels on the carpet merged with the ticking of the clock, the gentle crackling of the fireplace, and the quiet strains of the record turning, blurring into one white-noise.

Lecter held the coffee up to his mouth, but didn’t drink, rather swirled it under his nose and inhaled the aroma of it. As though it were a fine wine.

He smiled. Satisfied.

“There is something cathartic about a blizzard. A clean canvas. The morning after a rapture.”

He finally took a sip of his coffee, taking a moment to savour it.

“Perhaps I’m just a millenarian.”

The heel stopped tapping. His client shifted in his seat.

“I thought psychiatrists were supposed to be optimists.”

Dr Lecter turned his head.

“I am _deeply_ optimistic, Will.”

“And a millenarian? Isn’t that hypocritical?”

“And what is a man if not a bundle of contradictions?”

Will picked at a loose thread in his shirt, and feel silent again. 

The circles under his eyes had only continued to darken over the weeks, and his clothes were clean, but crumpled.

Hannibal made his way over to the desk.

“I’m impressed you made it in this weather.”

“Well, you know. Your appointments are the only regular thing in my life.”

“A still lake, in a dark and churning world.”

Will exhaled, sharply.

“Is that what you’d like to be, Dr Lecter?”

“It’s what I hope I can be for you, Will. If that is what you need.”

“A mooring point.”

“Exactly.”

He groaned.

“I think the ship’s already sinking.”

“Well then.”

Hannibal sat, crossing his ankle over his knee and reaching for his notebook.

Will noticed, half-amused, that it was already almost full.

“Let’s start bailing. Shall we?”

The fire crackled, and Will pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes with a sigh.

“Alright.”

“How have you been this week, Will?”

“Tired.”

“Have you been sleeping?”

“Occasionally.”

“But not regularly?”

“No. I don’t think so.”

“You don’t think so?”

“I keep losing time.”

“Losing time? What do you mean by that?”

“Realising that I’m stood in the woods in my uniform, but not even remembering getting in my truck.”

“So, periods of unconsciousness?”

“But I’m awake. I don’t just pass out, I’ve been _driving_.”

“And you can’t recall these periods later?”

“No.”

“How long would you say they last?”

“Sometimes minutes. Sometimes hours.”

“When was the last one?”

Will pressed his lips together. As though he was trying to stop something getting out.

His knee began to bounce again.

“I don’t remember driving here.”

The office clock seemed to grow louder with every silence.

Will could feel it in his chest. His vision blurred, and he wondered if he was crying.

He felt his face. It was dry.

“And you do feel that you’re awake now?”

“Yes.”

“No question in your mind?”

“I think this is real.”

“And you think you can trust your thoughts?”

“I think I can trust you.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

Hannibal stared into Will’s eyes. His usually unreadable expression twisted into something like concern.

“I don’t know.”

“Will?”  
  


Will blinked.

“Have you been having problems with your vision?”

“Sometimes.”

“Does that often accompany these losses of time?”

“Yes.”  
  


The clock reverberated through Will’s skull. Like it was being struck with a tuning fork.

“Will, I’m going to ask you to do a few things for me.”

His vision was turning into a kaleidoscope.

“Can you tell me the date and time?”

He shook his head, to clear his thoughts. He cleared his throat.

“Uh, it’s…it’s 4:42 pm. January 21st. 1970.”

“And where are you?”

“I’m…in Montclair. Washington.”

Hannibal nodded. He scribbled something in the notebook, which to Will looked completely illegible.

He stood up, and began to search in his desk.

“I just have on more test for you, Will.”

“What are you testing for?”

“Hard to tell.”

“What’s wrong with me?”

“Possibly nothing.”

_“Possibly?”_

“Will, can you stand up for me.”

Will stood, unsteady, leaning against the arms of the chair.

“Open your hand. That’s it. Relax it.”

Hannibal placed something into his hand. Cold, and heavy.

Will gripped it, without thinking, and felt his finger wrap round a trigger.

He startled. Through the haze, he could still tell that it was a compact pistol.

“This should feel familiar to you.”

“I use a shotgun.”

“Same workings. Different shell.”

“Why do I have this?”

“I want to test your reactions.”

“I can’t…I don’t know if I can…”

“Deep breath, Will. Steady yourself.”

Hannibal placed his hands on Will’s shoulders and moved him, gently, to face the fireplace at the other end of the room. Above it, flickering in the light, hung a large deer skull.

“See if you can hit it.”

Will narrowed his eyes. Swallowed. He raised the gun.

There was a moment of silence.

He noticed his hand was quivering.

He steadied his wrist with his other hand.

Hannibal stood, unmoving, to his right.

“I don’t want to kill you.”

“You’re not going to, Will.”

“I could. You don’t know what I could- I’m not _stable_.”

“Don’t think. Just aim, and fire.”

The flickering light was making Will’s head swim, and the only thing he could keep in focus was the skull’s empty eye sockets.

Staring.

Above them, the bright white antlers twisted absurdly. The room lurched.

His finger tightened.

He heard Hannibal’s voice. So close, it was as though it was coming from inside his own head.

“Don’t think, Will.”

He took a long inhale through gritted teeth, and squeezed the trigger.

The shot rang in his head, and he stumbled backwards.

In the back of his mind, he was aware of the gun being taken from his hands.

He went blank.

Hannibal put his hand behind Will’s head, at the curve of his neck, to stop him falling, and leant him backwards into a chair.

Will convulsed.

And went still.

Hannibal pressed his fingers against Will’s neck, and felt his pulse, racing.

He put the gun back in his desk drawer.

Keeping Will in his peripheral vision, he went to pick up the pieces of shattered skull from his floor,

The force of the impact had thrown it from the wall, and one of the antlers had snapped.

Hannibal held it up the light of the window, and observed the fading sun streaming through a perfectly clean hole in the temple.

He smiled.

Satisfied.


	13. Squab

Will woke up with something cold in his hand.

He twitched, and pulled his hand away without thinking, afraid, and as he did the cold thing was replaced with something warm, and soft, and breathing.

He opened his eyes.

He was in his own bed. Which had been made, neatly. Someone had even made a futile attempt to brush the dog hair off his sheets.

And Winston was falling asleep at his side. Nose pressed into his hand.

Breathing him in. As though he was afraid, at any moment, that he might disappear again.

As he came to, he started to become aware of the other dogs. Sniffing, and padding around in the other corner of the room, the sound of the big ones thumping the floor with their tails, the little ones tapping back and forth.

As his vision focused, he realised they were huddled around a tall figure.

Someone was feeding them.

His blurry eyes strained against the light. It was day, and the snow outside was making the windows appear to be glowing bright white.

There was the smell of something cooking. Deep, and rich, and savoury.

The sensations overwhelmed him, and his head began to ache, violently.

He groaned.

Footsteps clicked over to the bed, and fingers touched his wrist.

“Will.”

But of course he had known.

Even before they spoke.

The darkened figure in his peripheral vision was never a stranger these days.

It was always him.

The bed dipped.

Hannibal sat, carefully, on the side, extracting the covers from under his leg and folding them over.

“Can you hear me?”

Will nodded, slowly, reaching down to place his hand on Winston’s head.

His mouth felt like cotton wool.

“There’s a glass of water on the floor to your left. If you’d like it.”

Will flexed his fingers. Like he might make an attempt to reach for it, but he changed his mind and settled them back down.

“I’m alright.”

As soon as he got the words out, his thoughts started to clamour back to him. His head pounded.

“How did I get back?”

“I drove you.”

“My truck-”

“I’ve arranged for it to be transported back.”

“You didn’t want to drive it?”  
  


Will couldn’t see Hannibal’s face, but he could tell he was smiling.

“No. I thought it best not to.”

“What time is it?”

“Just past midday.”

Will closed his eyes, and exhaled. When he opened them, Hannibal came into clearer focus.

His shirt was loose, and his hair had come forwards slightly, over his face, which caught the light from the window and seemed to form a soft halo.

“How far back do you remember, Will?”

Will scratched Winston’s ears, thinking.

“I remember your office.”

“Good.”

“I remember the clock ticking. And Stravinsky.”

“Do you remember what we said?”

“Some of it.”

“But not others?”

“I’m struggling to put together which parts of it are real.”

“Ah. I see.”

Something in the kitchen sounded like it was starting to boil. Hannibal disappeared to check on it, and Will reached for the water. He spoke, in between sips.

“Did I faint?”

“I believe you may have had a mild seizure.”

Will’s throat tightened.

“A seizure?”

“They’re more common than you might think, Will.”

“Not for me.”

“I confess, I was quite shocked myself.”

“But _why_? Why would that happen?”

“There can be a multitude of reasons, Will. You had just told me that you were experiencing periods of lost time. Perhaps, we have discovered the cause.”

“But then what is there beyond that? There must be a reason.”

Hannibal emerged, briefly, in the kitchen doorway.

“I can admit now that when I was asking you to recall the date and time, I was testing the theory that it was a neurological issue.”

“And what conclusion did you draw from that?”

“Inconclusive.”

He slipped back into the darkness of the kitchen.

Will pressed the cold glass against his forehead.

He hesitated.

“Did you…give me a _gun_?”

There was a silence.

Hannibal placed two bowls of something hot on the table.

He turned. Expressionless.

“I gave you a starter pistol.”

“They were blanks.”

“Yes.”

“It wasn’t loaded?”

“No. Of course not.”

Will sat up, pressing his temples his forefingers, fighting against his memory.

“Why did you do that?”

“I find, when patients are in an extreme state of disorientation, that a sudden shock can have the effect of clarifying the mind.”

“It didn’t.”

“That was a misjudgement on my part.”

“Are you sure it wasn’t loaded?”

“Will, why would I keep a loaded gun in my practice, in arms reach of unstable and disturbed clients?”

“Self-defence.”

He met Hannibal’s eyes.

“I have never had reason to require such measures. I hope that will continue to be the case, Will.”

Hannibal sat, never averting his gaze. 

“Where did you get my address from?”

“Miss Katz gave it to me after our first meeting. In case I needed to contact you out of hours regarding my case.”

“Should’ve known she’d give me away.”

“You should be thankful she did. Or else you would have spent another night in my office.”

Will sniffed.

Hannibal pushed one of the bowls away from him, towards the other empty chair.

“You should eat some of this.”

“What is it?”

“Semolina porridge. I had hoped to make something more substantial but your cupboards were…barren.”

“Sorry about that.”

“Perhaps one of these days, I should teach you about basic nutrition.”

Will pulled one of the blankets around his shoulders, and padded over to the table.

He sat, heavily.

“Where did you learn to cook?”

“From my mother. She would make this when we were sick.”

Will paused, mid-bite.

“What was she like? Your mother.”

“Very much like her food.”

“Sweet and hearty?”

Hannibal smiled, and picked up his spoon.

“Mostly cold.”

They ate in silence for a while. The dogs, having finished their own food, settled down quietly at their feet.

“What about your father?”

“A hobbyist.”

“Of what?”

“Pigeons.”

“What, to eat?”

“To show. He found them to be particularly beautiful creatures.”

Will laughed.

“My dad used to call them pests.”

Hannibal nodded in agreement.

“He raised a few dozen birds every year. He’d keep them in this intricate coop, and feed them chopped vegetables and nuts and oats in warm milk. He’d even bring them inside by the fire when it got too cold.”

“All for these birds you could pick off the street in any city.”

“Exactly.”

“And every year, when they were grown, he’d open the doors of the coop for the first time and let them fly. And he’d watch, as the pair of sparrowhawks in the oak picked them off, one by one, and tore them apart.”

Will chewed. Swallowed.

“He sent them to die? Isn’t that madness?”

“When I was a boy, yes. It thought it was.”

“But now?”

“Now…”

He paused, reflective.

“…I know that it is a profound love indeed, that which sends its lover into extinction.”

Will put his spoon down, and looked up from his empty bowl.

Hannibal’s gaze was fixed in the middle-distance. As though, momentarily, he was somewhere else.

“Or, maybe your dad was actually raising the hawks.”

Hannibal’s eyes met his, suddenly amused.

“I hadn’t thought of it like that.”

He took a long sip of coffee.

“You don’t have sparrowhawks in America, do you?”

“I don’t think so.”

“You are truly missing out. They’re vicious creatures. They can kill and eat things up to five times their body mass.”

“Guessing they’re not actually related to sparrows.”

“No, they eat them too.”

Hannibal smiled, coolly.

“Whoever named them had a cruel sense of humour.”

The sun pooled in the centre of the room, just barely touching their shoulders and hair in a warm glow.

They remained. Quietly. In each other’s company.

The dogs yawning and sighing at their feet, the afternoon stretching on, golden, into infinity.

“How’s your head, Will?”

“Feels like it’s trapped in a vice.”

“You should rest.”

Will pulled the blanket around himself and nodded.

There was a silence. He seemed to be searching for words, and unwilling to say out loud what he found. 

His eyelids grew heavy. He swallowed. 

His pride crumbled like sand, and slipped between his fingertips.

“Stay.”

The haloed figure smiled.

He reached his hands over the table. Not close enough to Will’s that they were touching, but just barely apart.

In the soft light, against the dark wood of the table, they looked like a half-finished painting.

“Of course.”


	14. Bouquet Garni

The men driving the pickup gave Will an amused side-eye as they dropped it in front of his house.

They’d been paid too much to say anything, but they obviously realised he wasn’t the man they’d spoken to, and had noticed the expensive, out of place car pulling away as they arrived.

Will swung his keys around his finger as they got ready to head off, and of them leant his head out of the door.

“Something badly wrong with that truck.”

“Hasn’t failed me yet.”

They laughed.

“Get your man to give us a call when it does.”

Will shook his head.

He knew it was a turn of phrase. The sort of phrase they didn’t use in Virginia.

But the sideways smile on their faces made it clear enough what the intention was.

Will nodded to the driver.

“I’ll get my man to call your man. Or are you his?”

The passenger laughed. The driver didn’t. He rolled his window up, and pulled away without so much as a second glance.

Will felt his heart pounding in his chest.

He couldn’t tell if it was fear, or adrenaline.

“People really should learn to keep their mouths shut.”

Will startled. He turned.

His neighbour was sat out on her porch. Fumbling with a lighter and a cigarette.

She smiled.

“But I’m not gonna. What happened to your truck?”

“Nothing. Got a cab home and left it at work. Stupid mistake.”

“Nice cab driver. One that stays the night.”  
  


She lit the cigarette, and shielded it from the biting wind as she took a long drag.

“I could do with one of those myself. You get his business card?”

“Ain’t your business, Moll.”

“I know. I know it ain’t, nothing ever is.”

Will sat on his front steps. A light snow was beginning to fall.

“Then can I at least ask who he is?”

“He’s my…friend.”

“Well then. Your friend has a nice car.”

She winked.

“And a nice ass.”

“Moll-”

“Oh, I’m not allowed to make an observation?”

“How long have you been watching?”

“Since a weird car pulled up to your house and a weird man carried you out of it, Will.”

Will nodded. He rubbed his eyes.

“Yeah, I see how that looks.”

“You do? Because I had my hand on the phone all night case I heard anything.”

“He’s not-”

“Folks are getting _murdered_ , Will.”

Her nose started to run in the cold. She sniffed.

“My heart can’t take worrying about you like that.”

“I’m alright, Moll.”

Will had left the door ajar, and Winston came padding out, settling down into his lap with a sigh.

Molly nodded. Pursing her lips.

“Your friend. What’s his name?”

“I can’t tell you that, Moll.”

“Yeah I figured as much. You do know it though, right?”

“This isn’t what you think it is.”

She pulled a snowflake out of her hair, laughing.

“Alright. Fair enough. No more questions.”

Will brushed a fine layer of melting snow off of Winston’s fur.

“Thank you. I really do appreciate the concern.”

“Don’t mention it. Seriously. Just be careful, won’t you?”

“I will.”

“I mean it.”

She fixed him with a look.

“You have to keep your wits around these men, Will.”

He smiled, nodding.

“I’m a man too, Moll.”

“So you are. One of the few good’uns.”

“I dunno about that.”

She blew out a long plume of smoke.

“Like your father.”

Will stood, suddenly. Winston trotted back inside.

“Keep an eye on the dogs will you.”

“Sure thing. You got somewhere to be?”

“Work.”

“In this weather?”

“There’s always some dipshit who thinks they can hike in this.”

“I respect your dedication, kid. I’ll send a prayer for you.”

Will locked his door, and she began to light another cigarette.

“Thanks Moll.”

“Don’t mention it. And Will?”

“Yeah?”

“If you friend ever fancies playing both teams, give him my number, will you?”

Will rolled his eyes with a laugh.

“Save your prayers for yourself, Moll.”

“I got enough to go round.”

She waved him off from the porch, as the snow began to set in thick and fast.

The roads were almost completely clear, and it sounded like the truck was rattling in places it never used to.

He tried to flick the heater on.

It was busted.

_“Damn it.”_

Being loaded onto the pickup had clearly dislodged something, and Will found himself placing a reassuring hand on the dash.

“Come on old girl.”

He turned the radio on. Hoping to drown out the ratting.

_  
Biding my time,_

_Drinking her wine,_

_We talked until two._

His mind wandered. For a moment, he had the phantom sensation that there was a hand on his own.

Fingers curled around his wrist. Gently.

His breath shuddered in his throat.

_And when I awoke I was alone,_

_This bird had flown._

He shook his head. Gripped the wheel.

  
_So I lit a fire._

_Isn't it good Norwegian wood?_

The next thing he was aware of was the familiar sign for Prince William Forest Park.

And the fact that he was shivering. And he could see his own breath. And his engine was failing.

He parked up in the first place he could and started by dismantling the dash, prying off the grills of the heater with his pocketknife.

He was sure Bev would understand. It was probably a quick fix.

He fit his hand in, and immediately drew it back in surprise.

There was something soft in there. Wet.

Something _rotting_.

He gagged. With the grill removed, the smell was so strong he could barely think.

His head was starting to pulse again.

He held his face as far away as possible, and reached back in with his knife until he managed to dislodge something and pull it out.

He held it up to the light. Squinting.

It was a long, green stem. And some kind of white flower.

He popped the trunk, retrieving his flashlight, and tried close enough to peer into the heater cavity. There was more of it.

Packed in there so tight it was no surprise it had destroyed the electrics.

Where he touched it, his hand was starting to get red and irritated. After a while, he had to wrap his sleeves over his hands just to finish the job.

His eyes were watering from the fumes.

He opened the fuel cap. Saw trailing stems leading all the way into the gas tank. 

Lifted the bonnet. Gagged. 

The smell hit him in a wave, and he reeled. 

Every single mechanical part was crawling with it.

He covered his mouth and nose with his shirt, and struggled against the plants until he pulled the final stem free, and hunched over at the side of the path.

The song on the radio played out into its final chord.

He sunk to his knees, and threw up. 


	15. Absinthe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise, I'm still alive. Trying to keep things short and consistent but hey, words are hard sometimes. 
> 
> And once again, thanks so much for all the support, it really does mean so much. Never in a million years did I expect people to vibe with an AU this damn niche.

Bev was pretending to be busy in the corner of the staff room.

Her hair was still damp from the snow, and she had one hand on a steaming mug, the other on the radiator.

Occasionally, she sighed in Will’s direction.

“It’s the one we give to kids. So don’t be surprised if you see some tasteful graffiti.”

Will didn’t look up.

He flicked over another dogeared page. 

“I mean like, dicks. Or whatever.”

He was silent.

Bev sighed again. Realising she wouldn’t get a response out of him.

She kept him in her eyeline as she shuffled papers.

He was hunched over, half-stood out of his chair in urgency, one hand thumbing through the pages of a yellowed glossary, and the other tapping anxiously on his top lip.

“What did you say it looked like again?”

“Long woody stems. Toothed leaves. White flower.”

“What, like a daisy?”

“No, like…”

He paused on a page, considering the image.

“Like the kind of thing battered wives use to poison their husbands.”

Bev stared into her tea.

“Will-”

He turned onto the next page.

He didn’t acknowledge her.

“Will.”

On the next page, his hand stopped tapping for a moment. He leaned in, squinting at the yellowed image.

“Will. Are you feeling ok?”

He looked up, surprised.

“Yeah. I mean I can’t get this smell out of my nose but other than that-”

“I mean, uh…I mean mentally.”

He cleared his throat.

“Right.”

“Are you?”

“I feel fine. Actually, I feel the best I have in weeks.”

“Ok.”

“My heads clearer.”

“Ok.”

“You don’t believe me?”  
  


Bev traced the large chip in her mug, and chewed on her lower lip.

“It’s not that I don’t believe you, Will.”

“Then what is it?”

She cast her eyes upwards, as if she was looking for some kind of divine intervention.

“Alana said-”

“Who?”

“Dr Bloom said that when you’re dealing with-”

_“Alana?”_

Will sat back down in the chair, book temporarily forgotten. He raised his eyebrows incredulously.

Bev laughed.

“What? Come on, you think you're the only one who has conversations with them?”

“Not with first names.”

“She came back yesterday.”

“On the job?”

“Off. She was still dressed like a junior school teacher though.”

“She wasn’t _hiking_ , was she?”

“No, no she was taking photos. She wanted to see what it looked like in the snow.”

Will smiled. He looked away.

“Sure she did.”

“She said they were saying it was weird. That they just stopped. The bodies, I mean.”

“She have any theories?”

“She said generally when that happens, it means they’ve been arrested. But they’ve gone through the last month’s incarcerations. State-wide. No-one seems to fit the M.O.”

“Maybe it’s too cold. Even for serial killers.”

"You think they hibernate? Like bears?"

She laughed, at her own joke. 

Will turned his attention back to the book.

“Or maybe, whoever it is, they found something more fulfilling.”

Bev shrugged.

“Your guess is as good as mine. And hers, seems like.”

Will hummed. He skimmed through the index.

“And she said it’s normal. To be…affected. By things.”

“I’m not _affected_.”

“You said you were seeing things.”

“It was stress.”

“So it’s stopped now?”

“Yes.”

“You’re completely fine?”

He swallowed.

“I’m completely fine.”

“Will. I don’t want to-”

She paused. Perching on the arm of a chair and wrapping her arms around herself.

She lowered her voice.

“I didn’t want to mention this but I saw Dr Lecter too.”

He looked up.

“When?”

“Yesterday. Afternoon. He came in to see me.”

“What did he say?”

She watched his eyes for a moment. Brows furrowed. 

“He said you had a seizure. That I should be careful with you for a while.”

Will closed his eyes for a moment. Exhaling.

“I’m not porcelain, Bev.”

She nodded.

“So you did, then.”

“Apparently they’re more common than people think.”

“Will-”

“I’m alright, Bev. I feel better.”

“…do you?”

Will paused, noting her tone.

“What?”

“Will. Do you _really_ think there were…plants. In your truck.”

His eyes widened in understanding. He groaned.

“Oh, I see what this is.”

“I’m just-”

“It was real. It was the realest thing I’ve experienced in weeks.”

“Ok. I’m not saying I don’t trust you, I’m just saying-”

“I’m an unreliable source.”

“I’m saying I haven’t seen any evidence.”

“I threw it all into the woods. It smelt toxic.”

“Yeah. And I guess my other point is...”

She rubbed the back of her neck, lips pursed in thought.

“Why the hell would there be plants in your truck, Will?”

She laughed, momentarily, as though the absurdity hadn’t hit her until she said it out loud.

“I mean, in the _heater_? That’s not just debris that’s…I mean, God, I dunno.”

“Someone put them there.”

“Like, what, like a joke?”

“I don’t know.”

“You think someone would go to all that trouble?”

“I don’t know what to think.”

She nodded.

“Do you wanna know what I think?”

“You’re gonna tell me even if I don’t.”

“I think you’re paranoid.”

Will sat for a while, silent.

He pinched the bridge of his nose.

“I think you’ve…you know. You’ve seen some shit and you’re scared, Will. You’re scared you might be next. And you’re getting paranoid. About shit that isn’t there.”

“I’m not scared.”

“Yeah you are. Hell, I am.”

She shrugged. Defeatedly.

“I am, Will. And he doesn’t even kill women. That we know of. Maybe I’ll be the first. Who knows.”

Will didn’t respond.

He’d opened the book again, and was skimming through, no longer reading, just staring at the pictures.

Bev stood, slowly.

“Alright. Good talk.”

Her tea had gone cold. She poured it down the drain.

“Hey, if you need time off, Will, you can tell me. I can call someone else in to-”

_“Datura Stramonium.”_

“What?”

Will picked the book up, and held the open page up for her to see. She squinted.

“Jimsonweed? You can find that anywhere round here. Not exactly exotic.”

“It’s an invasive species.”

“Yeah. It’s a pain in the ass.”

“Part of the nightshade family.”

“Huh. Didn’t know that.”

“All parts of Datura plants contain dangerous levels of the tropane alkaloids atropine, hyoscyamine, and scopolamine.”

Bev scoffed.

“Whatever that means.”

“You still think I hallucinated it all, don’t you?”

She turned her back, and said nothing.

There was a pause.

“You want coffee, Will?”

“No, thanks.”

“You gone off coffee or something? I never see you drink it anymore.”

“Instant isn’t as good as it used to be.”

“Then it’s your lucky day.”

She produced a large, cardboard box from under the sideboard, and scanned the words on it.

“What’s that?”

“An anonymous benefactor has donated an espresso machine for us.”

She winked.

“By anonymous benefactor I mean Dr Lecter. He bought it round when he was here yesterday.”

For a split second, Will felt the same phantom sensation he’d felt in the truck.

Of hands touching his.

Long, neat fingers.

His breath caught in his throat.

“He said he thought we’d probably need one to get through this winter. But if you ask me…”

She plugged the machine into the wall.

“…I think he just knows you too well.”

Will smiled.

“Can you ever know someone _too_ well?”

Bev ran her hand along the top of the machine. Thinking. 

“I knew this guy once. House flipper. You know. Took on these old places that were falling apart and fixed them up for an extortionate price.”

She cast a glance over the dials and switches.

“And he told me that one time, he bought this place that was ancient. Really ancient, 1700s or something. And he started chipping away all these hundreds of years of layers of paint and eventually he found this beautiful green layer. And he though he’d leave it like that. Authentic, you know.”

She paused.

“Turns out they used to put arsenic in green paint.”

The machine hummed into life, and Will rose to put the book back where it had come from.

"Worked in there for weeks without realising."

“He die?”

“Nah. Not immediately. Was never the same though.”

“Christ.”

“What I’m saying is, sometimes you shouldn’t start peeling things away.”

Will watched the coffee machine work from a distance. Standing out, chrome and polished, against the bare wood of the staff room.

Like leather shoes on a dirt path.

Or a stone grey European car. 

Bev met his eyes with a mock sternness, and broke his train of thought.

“You don't know what you'll let out."


	16. Tartare

Will’s fingers closed around the knife.

His thumb pressed flush against the handle, just brushing the cold metal of the blade, and the skin whitened over his knuckles.

He took a long breath in, which hissed through his clenched teeth.

There was movement behind him. Leather shoes squeaking. Warm breath on his neck.

A hand brushed against his elbow, and long fingers covered his own.

“Like this, Will.”

They moved his thumb over, to wrap under the lip of the metal, and pressed gently into the joint of his wrist, flexing it.

“Now you can move freely, see?”

The hand lingered for a moment longer, then let go. The sensation still remained on Will’s skin.

“Try now.”

Will exhaled.

He pressed down, sharply.

He held the sliced shallot up to the light, for approval.

“Better?”

Hannibal smiled, warmly.

He rolled his sleeves up to his elbows, and stoked the flame beneath a spitting pan.

“Perfect.”

Will balanced the knife in his hand, watching the soft lights of the kitchen catch on the sharp edge, and the way his own reflection warped and twisted in the blade.

“Looks expensive.”

“Japanese craftsmanship. Imported, at a significant cost to myself.”

“Just for show?”

“Of course not.”

He paused, without elaborating. Will smiled.

“Fine. I’ll bite. What's special about it?”

Hannibal stepped back behind Will, and took a handful of onions for the sizzling pan.

“It’s made for sushi, Will. Which means it can cut meat so thinly, you could read a newspaper through it.”

Will whistled, impressed.

“Like butter.”

“Precisely.”

“What’s the meat?”

Will cast his eyes over the plate, dripping with blood at the edges. Not fatty enough for pork shoulder, but not as lean as a cut of beef.

“Venison.”

Will laughed.

“You got a responsible butcher? Or should I go get my badge?”

“An incredibly responsible butcher.”

Hannibal turned, with an amused curve in his eyebrows.

“Dare I say _meticulous_.”

“Good. Gotta be safe with deer.”

“Why is that?”

Will turned his attention to cutting the rest of the vegetables laid out on the counter.

“CWD. Chronic Wasting Disease.”

“Ah. A form of spongiform encephalopathy _,_ I believe. One of nature’s crueller tricks. _”_

“We should both be eternally grateful that we were not born deer.”

“Yes. I suppose we should be. Although, Will, I should also warn you against eating human brain tissue.”

Will shot Hannibal a look.

“The only form of spongiform found in humans is spread through cannibalistic practices. Often within tribes.”

“The _brains_?”

“The study of anthropology can raise some truly fascinating attempts by God to stop us eating what shouldn’t be eaten.”

“I live by my dad’s words on meat.” 

“Which were?”

“Never eat anything that looks like its thinking.”

The knife clicked rhythmically against the rough wood grain of the copping board.

Will chuckled to himself, reminiscent.

“Because you can always tell. When deer have got it.”

“How so?”

“They stop being afraid of humans. Deer are perpetually nervous by design. If they start getting too comfortable, too close, you know something’s wrong.”

Hannibal moved the browning shallots onto a lower heat, and cast a sideways glance across his darkened kitchen. The faint strains of Vivaldi permeated his thoughts. Accompanied pleasantly by the crackle of the vinyl and the smell of toasting garlic, spice, and olive oil. 

And Will.

In a faded brown overshirt. Behind him, the remaining daylight filtering in from the hallway, catching in his eyelashes and streaking the dark waves of his hair. A stray brushstroke of light.

The air seemed to dapple around him. 

Like it was filtering through some unseen tree cover. As though the glow wasn’t coming from the rest of the house, but rather that Will had carried the outside light in with him. On his skin.

And for a moment, it struck Hannibal that it was like there was something wild in his kitchen. Something few had caught. 

A deer who would drive an hour in the snow, just to eat from his hand.

He turned away again.

“How is your own brain faring, Will?”

“I thought you said this wasn’t a session.”

“It isn’t. I’m not asking out of professional obligation.”

“Morbid curiosity, then?”

“Care.”

Will stopped chopping, for a moment,

“It’s misplaced.”

“You act like its something unusual. For someone to care for you.”

“It isn’t an easy task.”

“Why should it be?”

Hannibal traced his fingers along the edge of the marble countertop, reaching for the plate of venison.

“Is that not the beautiful hypocrisy of Man? To be completely, utterly unlovable. And yet, to be loved.”

Will scoffed.

“By God?”

“By each other.”

Hannibal began to dice the meat.

A small pool of blood trickled down the side of the board and trailed across the counter, wine-red and rich.

Will watched the knife slice through sinew. Muscle. Meat.

Like butter.

“You didn’t answer my question, Will.”

“Sorry, I was…what did you ask?”

“How is your head?”

“Clearer.”

“I can tell.”

“Or else you wouldn’t have given me a knife, right?”

Hannibal’s lips curled into a smile.

“Of course not.”

He wiped the blood with a cloth.

“No more seizures, I assume?”

“Nothing. I feel better. I sleep better.”

“What changed?”

Will watched Hannibal sheer a sprig of thyme from a small pot on the windowsill.

He hesitated.

“I don’t know.”

“There must have been something.”

“I’m not sure.”

“Perhaps it’s not completely come back to you, then.”

Hannibal poured a splash of red wine into the pan, with a hiss.

“Still, it’s certainly progress.”

“You want me to start cooking that meat?”

“That won’t be necessary.”

Hannibal blotted the remaining blood from the venison, and transferred it to a bowl with the shallots and garlic.

“You’re not cooking it?”

“Venison tartare. Named for the Tartars, who supposedly had so little time to cook that they would place raw meat under their saddles to tenderise it, and then eat it raw.”

Will hummed, pouring himself a glass of wine.

“Wonder what their horses thought about that.”

“Yes. I imagine it was a rather unpleasant experience for them.”

He formed the meat into pucks, indenting the centre with his thumb.

“And now, what was once considered savagery, is now considered a delicacy.”

“Yeah. People will pay hundreds of dollars just to eat like dogs.”

“It appeals to the fantasy. Briefly, we are predators. Not prey”

Will watched the blood drip down Hannibal’s wrists.

“The primal satisfaction of eating your kill raw.”

He took a mouthful of red wine. Savoured it, on his tongue, as he had watched Hannibal do.

He knew it was just his mind.

But it felt warm. And thick.

Bitter as iron.

He swallowed.

The aftertaste was just wine.

And nothing more.

“You should go and take a seat, Will. You’ll find the table’s already laid.”

“You don’t need any more help?”

“It would be discourteous to ask anything more of my guest.”

“Since when do we care about courtesy?”

_“We?”_

Will shrugged.

“We. You and I. Us.”

“Us.”

The record faded, and reached its end, with a click.

Hannibal rose to change it.

“In which case, Will, let me ask something which is not courteous.”

“Shoot.”

“Who am I to you?”

Will raised his head, surprised. He hesitated.

“What do you mean by _who_?”

“In your head, am I your therapist? Your friend? Your investigator?”

He thumbed over the spines of a stack of record. Selecting one, thoughtfully.

“Your father?”

Will laughed, suddenly.

“I’m too old to be looking for a father.”

“Then what are you looking for?”

Will fell silent.

The light had faded further, and his eyes disappeared into a shadow as he turned his face away.

“I’m not looking for anything.”

“And yet, you appear to have found something.”

Hannibal found the record he was looking for, and placed it delicately on the turntable, adjusting the needle between thumb and forefinger.

“I’m curious as to what you believe that to be.”

“You keep saying… _think_. _Believe_. I don’t know. I don’t know what I believe.”

“Then, what do you want?”

Will paused.

He raised his eyes to the ceiling, Adam’s apple bobbing nervously in his throat.

He breathed.

“I want…this.”

He smiled. Eyes glassy.

Like it was a confession.

“Whatever _this_ is.”

The record began to turn.

Slowly. Falteringly.

Will could not name the instruments.

He never could, not without being told. He didn't have the ear for it.

But he knew it was a duet.

And he listened. Quiet.

As one instrument held a single note. 

And the other joined underneath, hesitant. As though it were afraid. 

The figure in the corner of Will’s eye was still.

He couldn’t see his face.

“That wasn’t the answer you wanted, was it?”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because you didn’t ask another question. You usually do.”

“Perhaps you already said everything.”

Will took another, steadying drink.

“That can’t be everything.”

“It can’t?”

“It has to be more complicated than that.”

“Why?”

“Because we don’t _get_ to be simple. Do we?”

Hannibal turned. He took a long, steady look at Will. Savouring him.

Like he was tasting a wine for the first time.

“I sense that when you say _we_ , you are suggesting something more than ‘you and I’, Will.”

“I mean…what we are.”

He paused. From behind, he wondered if Hannibal could see him shaking. 

“You are, aren’t you?”

The prolonged pause made him nervous.

He had the sudden, and overwhelming feeling that if he turned, Hannibal would be gone, and instead he would see his father.

Stone-faced with fury. Fist clenched. Eyes turned to God.

Just as always was, in Will’s head.

Looming.

Judging.

“I am.”

Hannibal took a step into the light.

His expression was soft.

“Does it feel better to say it, Will?”

“ _Better_ is subjective. Better than what?”

“Better than silence.”

“Silence is safe.”

“And it is suffocating.”

He returned to the stovetop, sliding two plates out from a cupboard, and beginning to arrange them.

Will composed himself.

“Does anyone else know?”

“For certain? No. However, I am sure there are those who also have their suspicions.”

“What are you going to do about that?”

“Let them.”

He cracked an egg over a bowl, moving it from hand to hand to separate the yolk, and placed it carefully on top of the neat pucks of venison.

“I am not ashamed, Will. Neither should you be.”

“Why?”

“Because you had no say in it.”

“I could have hidden it better.”

“And would that have made you happy?”

“It would have made me normal.”

“No one is normal, Will.”

“But they’re happy when they pretend to be.”

Hannibal balanced a small flower on the side of each plate.

“You don’t believe you can be loved as you are.”

“Again with the belief. I _know_ it.”

“Who told you that?”

“I learnt it from experience.”

The words hung heavy, and the conversation lapsed. 

The light from outside had completely faded, and the kitchen was illuminated solely by a hanging lamp, bathing everything beneath it in a pale wash.

Hannibal took a plate in each hand, and placed one in front of Will, who was a different man now.

Washed-out. Fragile.

Porcelain.

He lowered his head, in acknowledgement of being watched, and folded his arms tightly into his chest.

Like he was bracing for impact.

“Eat. You’ll feel better.”

“Don’t you want to eat in the dining room? We can both pretend I’m polite company.”

“I’m not interested in pretending.”

“We never established what you are interested in.”

Hannibal sat opposite Will, and opened his hands slightly, smiling.

As he did so, there was a still moment in the music.

A fermata.

A note held, for as long as the player wishes.

“This.”

Will picked up a fork.

He stared down, into the plate.

“It’s beautiful.”

“I can only commend your superb preparation of the shallots.”

“It looks too pretty to eat.”

“I’m sure the same could have been said of the deer. Yet, here we are.”

Hannibal poured his own glass of wine, and Will cut into the meat, nodding.

“Here we are.”

He took a tentative mouthful.

He chewed.

“How is it, Will?”

Will swallowed.

He met Hannibal’s eyes, and looked, for a moment, as though he might cry.

The tension left his shoulders. His hands stilled.

He smiled.

A tear trailed down his cheek, and he let it fall. 

“It's divine, Hannibal.”


	17. Grapevine

“Jesus Christ.”

Zeller had broken a five minute silence. He turned to the assembled, eyebrows raised. As though he were demanding an answer for the scene in front of him.

Price put a hand on his shoulder, wearily, and shook his head.

Dr Alana Bloom turned away, lips firmly clasped, but the horror in her eyes echoed the sentiment.

The officers were still putting up tape.

“Not that it matters,” Bev had mumbled offhand to Will.

“Nobody’s gonna get anywhere near it. Fucking _look_ at it.””

Will hadn’t listened.

His mind was buzzing. Untuned.

Like violin strings, pulled too taught over his skull.

An officer stepped forward, hand outstretched, gesturing for them to step back and away from the body. He opened his mouth, authoritarian, but he was interrupted.

“Let them stay, sergeant.”

“I’m not sure that’s-”

Dr Hannibal Lecter stood, from where he had been crouched to examine the body, and cast him a stern eye.

“Let them stay.”

The man lowered his hand, defeated, and stepped over to mutter to his colleagues.

Bev touched Will’s wrist, startling him out of his own thoughts

“You should go, Will.”

“They just said its fine.”

“I know. I just don’t think-”

She sighed. Eye line fixed firmly on the ground.

“I don’t think it’s good for you.”

“I can handle it.”

“Can you?”

Her hand trembled slightly, before she drew it back.

“Because I’m not sure I can, Will.”

He nodded, slowly.

“If I don’t see it, I would only make it worse in my head.”

“Worse than _that_?”

Will squinted upwards, blinded by the low, looming sun.

His breath hung in the air.

Six or seven feet ahead stood a structure of wood and greenery that would have resembled a bonfire, had it not been methodically draped in trailing ivy and vines to form a sheet of leaves, that cascaded down its face and pooled on the floor.

Atop it, lay a body. And it was _laid_. Positioned, every joint manipulated to create the impression that he had settled down there himself.

The right arm hung down, limp, fingers curled around a bloody puncture wound in the palm, and the head lolled over the left shoulder, obscuring the face from view behind his lifeless shoulders, and a rain soaked head of dark hair.

The left arm was resting against the taller back of the structure, pinning it against the chest, pale fingers trailed down the left thigh, and the legs were slightly bent at the knee, one foot stable on the structure, the other slightly raised.

He seemed, to Will, as though he was being held. 

As if there was a figure missing in the diorama. A lap under his lower back, an arm wrapped under his neck and shoulders to keep him stable, a face, looming above him. Tender. Loving.

But now, he was alone.

And his blood still slowly was trickling, dark and thick, from a gash in his stomach.

Will averted his gaze, shuddering, and met Hannibal’s.

He stood in the long shadow of the structure, at a distance from the growing number of assembled, and peeling off a pair of disposable gloves from his hands.

His face was unreadable.

There was a bitter taste in Will’s mouth.

Panic.

That he’d done something wrong.

He’d said too much. Revealed too much of himself.

That Hannibal had been scared away. And Will couldn’t blame him.

He _knew_.

And that was a dangerous thing.

He gradually became aware of the fact that Alana Bloom was talking.

He pressed his nails into his palm to focus himself, grimacing.

“Did you hear that, Will?”

“Sorry.”

She sighed, adjusting her scarf to be tighter around her neck.

“We’re leaving no stone unturned right now. I hope you understand our urgency.”

“I understand.”

“Which means the FBI is going to need to search your vehicle. Just as a formality.”

“Why?”

“These murders demand a certain knowledge of the park. We’re ruling out the obvious. We’ve already done the same for your colleagues.”

“I recently had it deep cleaned. My truck, I mean.”

Dr Bloom raised her brows.

“Oh? Why was that?”

“It was-”

Bev shot him a nervous glance. He faltered.

“I had a deer carcass in the trunk. Spread gore all over the seats. Stupid mistake.”

Bloom hummed. She smiled, politely, but her words were deliberate.

“You should be more careful, Mr Graham.”

He clenched his jaw. Bev seemed to catch the meaning, as she interrupted.

“He’s invaluable, Alana. Keeps the deer population down. Since hunting’s illegal within the park, we have to manage them ourselves or else they eat everything in sight. Right, Will?”

He didn’t reply. Dr Bloom nodded.

“I’m sure of it. Can I take that as permission to search your truck, then?”

“Go ahead.”

“Thank you for your cooperation, Mr Graham. It’s much appreciated.”

“No problem.”

He fished around in his coat pocket for his keys. In his peripheral vision, he saw Hannibal making his way over to the group.

He nodded at Dr Bloom as he approached, who pursed her lips in response.

“What do you make of it, Dr Lecter?”

“It is rather beautiful. In a morbid way.”

“I wouldn’t say that. It looks as though there’s flesh missing on this one too.”

“The stomach wound?”

“Yes. It’s not just a stab, its completely carved out.”

Will stared at the ground. Grimly.

Hannibal skimmed his notes.

“The puncture wounds in the palms are consistent with that of nails or screws. Manually hammered in, not a nail gun.”

“He’s a traditionalist, then.”

“Or at least striving for accuracy.”

“Accuracy? To what?”

Hannibal gestured towards the body.

“He’s imitating the Old Masters. Art’s most recognisable images.”

“Art?”

“A previous one was the crucifixion, if you recall. His own interpretation of Jesus on the cross. Painted by many before him.”

“The body Mr Graham found?”

Will looked up.

Hannibal didn’t acknowledge him.

“Yes.”

“Then what’s this?”

“The _Pietà_ , or ‘the pity’. The dying Jesus upon his mother’s lap. As sculpted by Michelangelo, to name only one of many renditions.”

“But _why_? Why these men? Is he deifying them?”

“Perhaps. Or simply putting them where he feels they belong.”

He paused.

“I can search Mr Graham’s truck, if you’d like.”

“Oh, I was going to ask-”

“Our colleagues have enough on their plate, don’t you think? I may as well make myself useful.”

Bloom raised her hands, dismissively.

Will held out his keys, and Hannibal took them, with a smile.

“I shall try not to be too invasive, Mr Graham.”

Will felt the warmth of Hannibal’s skin linger on his own as he pulled his hand away.

“Invasive is fine, Dr Lecter.”

The smile curled, shifting from politeness to amusement.

Hannibal hooked the keys around his index finger and turned, heading down the path.

Will noticed, from his footfall, that he’d bought boots.

He wondered if he’d had anything to with that.

The officers were starting to scale the woodpile and retrieve the body from its resting place.

They watched. Silently.

Dr Bloom cleared her throat.

“Since confidentiality is out the proverbial window, I suppose there’s no harm in me telling you that we’ve identified him.”

Bev pulled her coat around herself, shivering.

“You work quickly.”

“We know where to look by now. Which… _circles_. Makes it considerably easier.”

“Right. Of course.”

Will watched as they covered the body with a sheet, and attempted to lift him onto a gurney.

The movement was too sudden, and for a moment the top of sheet fell loose and revealed his face.

Will stared.

It stared back. 

“Who was he?”

“Jordan Earnshaw. Early 20s. He was identified by a…let’s say partner.”

She paused.

“Do you know the worst thing?”

The gurney trundled past, rattling on the uneven path, followed closely behind by Zeller and Price.

She sighed.

“He really was a carpenter.”

Will watched his lifeless hand slip out from under the sheet, as the procession disappeared into the tree cover.

He felt a stinging in his palm, and looked down only to realise that he was still pressing his nails into his skin, and it had drawn blood.

He put his hands in his coat pockets.

Bev wiped her nose with her sleeve and shook her head. 

“God rest his soul.”

Will hummed.

The bitter sting of iron crept across his tongue, and he swallowed. 

The taste faded. Mellowed.

Hannibal came back up the path, clicking Will’s keys in his hand, pausing to let the gurney pass.

He nodded to Dr Bloom. 

“Nothing out of order.”

She nodded. Will sensed an air of disappointment.

Bev shivered.

“Well, I need a hot drink.”

“And Dr Lecter and I should really be going. Again, don’t hesitate to be in touch if anything comes up.”

“Drive safe, both of you.”

“Will do.”

Hannibal touched Will’s elbow, subtly, as he passed him. He winked. 

It wasn’t until Will sat in his truck at the end of the day that he realised why.

The seat had been moved, and as he was adjusting it back, that he noticed a cassette tape slotted neatly beside his seat.

He turned it over in his hands.

No description.

Just a word. In painfully neat script.

_Will._

He pushed it into the slot below the radio dials.

Closed his eyes.

Handel’s _Messiah_ reverberated through his truck.

_‘Hallelujah.’_

Even through his tinny radio, it sounded holy.

Cathartic.

He could smell him. Deep, and rich.

And all he could taste was the long finish of a sweet red wine.

_‘Hallelujah.’_

He felt his heart settle in his chest, as the park faded in his rear-view mirror.

The body on the woodpile all but forgotten.

He felt giddy.

Like a boy.

_‘Hallelujah.’_


	18. Bain-marie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I’m writing Hannibal fanfic on Valentine’s day. Honestly? Most romantic thing I've done in years. 
> 
> Also this is definitely getting into the endgame chapters now, thanks so much for sticking with and for all the kind words, all in all this was just a bit of self-indulgence to get some prose practice in as the world falls apart, so I’m bowled over by the support tbh. Next bits might take some time, but I'll try to keep things consistent. 
> 
> Stay safe folks.

Hannibal’s bathtub was long, and extravagant.

It was carved out of one solid block of marble, and took up such a considerable footprint in the bathroom itself that it reminded Will less of a bathtub, and more of the Roman communal baths he'd seen in pictures.

His thoughts were muffled by the echoing of the running water against the cold stone floor and walls, and he stood, overwhelmed, pulling his socks off and gawping at the architecture.

Of all the emotions he’d ever felt in unfamiliar bathrooms, _stage-fright_ was a new one. 

“Can I use your shower? I came straight from work.”

Hannibal had barely looked up from the mortar and pestle.

“There’s only a bath. Is that alright?”

“That’s fine. Last time I had a bath I was a kid.”

“After what you’ve seen this week, I imagine you want to sterilise yourself.”

“I want to boil myself like a lobster.”

Hannibal laughed, spice powder rising into the air as he crushed it.

“It’s upstairs, to the right. You can’t miss it.”

“How long do I have?”

“There’s half an hour left on the meat.”

“I’ll be quick.”

But now, in the great white expanse of the bathroom, time was thick, and slow, like molasses, and Will couldn’t tell how long the bath had been running.

With the steam rising from the water, he could barely make out his own reflection in the mirror.

He wiped it with his palm, and watched the condensation run down his miserable little silhouette.

His dark circles had gotten darker. Almost purple, now, from lack of sleep. His hair getting long, and had started to slick backwards off his face instead of hanging down over his forehead, and his cheeks were sinking ever inwards.

He realised, as he so often did these days, that he was looking at his father.

He felt a jolt in his chest.

The water had climbed the side of the tub, and he reached to shut the tap off.

There was a moment’s silence.

Faintly, he could hear the sound of the knife on the chopping board downstairs.

Even fainter, the strains of Chopin. The crackle of the needle skipping across vinyl. Hannibal humming the occasional melody under his breath.

He knew he’d be conducting too. Forefinger and thumb pressed together, as though around a baton, eyes closed, beating out the time signature for the orchestra in his mind’s eye.

The image of control. Poise.

Will stared at his own nakedness in the mirror.

His arms were still streaked in dirt from the fencing he’d been putting up, and the missionary crawl he’d had to make under a barbed wire fence had left scratches on the nape of his neck, and across his back where it had torn up his shirt.

Against the marble walls, he looked half-savage.

Something the cat had dragged in, and left uneaten. Just to play with. For its own amusement.

He stepped into the water, shaking the image from his head, hesitating with one foot in to gauge the temperature.

His shower at home barely pushed freezing, so his knees almost buckled at the feeling of hot water on his skin.

He sunk completely in. With a sigh.

The faint stinging from the scratches all but dissolving into a pleasant numbness, and the smell of soil, woodsmoke and animal fur that clung permanently to his skin now mingling with soap, cotton, and lavender.

He let his eyes fall closed.

Just for a second.

On the edge of unconsciousness, he smelt something else.

His father’s cologne.

Old-fashioned. Woody.

Tinted with the scotch on his breath.

The sulfuric tang of gunpowder.

And then Will was home. His childhood home. In the backwoods.

His father towelling his hair dry. The radio playing hymns.

The dog howling in the front room.

He hummed a phrase and rose to turn the volume up, leaving Will to finish the job.

“You’ve inherited the Graham family bird’s nest, kid.”

Will piped up, from beneath the towel. Remembering this scene.

Remembering his lines.

“Is that a good thing?”

“It’ll make your life difficult. I can tell you that.”

“What can I do about it?”

His father chuckled, weakly.

“Chop it all off. But Lord knows the ladies at church will never forgive me if I do that.”

“It’s my hair. Can’t I just cut it myself?”

“It don’t work like that, Will.”

He continued patting at his hair in silence, knowing better than to continue the questions.

His father squinted at the radio controls.

“Ladies love curly haired fellas. You’ve got that going for you.”

Will stayed quiet.

“Don’t say you thought I didn’t know.”

“What?”

“That you’ve got a girl. I know you been hanging out after school with someone.”

“I haven’t.”

“It don’t take an hour to walk back, Will. I’m not stupid.”  
  


He laughed.

“Hell, I had a girlfriend at your age. Nothing wrong with it so long as you’re not doing nothing silly.”

“I’m not doing _anything_.”

“Yeah. You know you’re a bad liar?”

“I’m not lying!”

“Well, do you like any girls then?”

Will shook his head.

“Come on, Will. None of ‘em?”

“I don’t like them.”

“You will. Soon enough.”

“I don’t know.”

His father looked up, suddenly.

“Who are you hanging out with after school then?”

“No-one, I already said-”

“Will. Look at me now.”

Will tried not to meet his eyes. He stared, hard, at the bridge of his father’s nose.

“Who is it? Because if it’s them kids with the truck again I swear-”

“Just a boy from school. That’s it.”

“Where are you going?”

“Down the creek.”

“Doing what?”

“Fishing.”

“Like you were fishing when they caught you round the back of the woodpile?”  
  


The silence fell. Weighted.

The water was going cold.

Will shivered.

“Will. I have faith you’re gonna grow out of this. Whatever _this_ is.”

He felt his eyes stinging. He nodded.

“If not, I don’t know what the Hell I’m gonna have to do with you.”

Will’s eyes stayed, fixed, on the space in between his father’s eyes.

“You hear me?”

Watching, in horror, as a trickle of blood made its way down the side of his nose, and a hole began to erupt from his forehead, growing wider and wider it his face was gaping open, like a bloody cave mouth.

He fell backwards. Against the door. With a thud.

Will woke up with water in his mouth.

He choked.

Something thudded against the door again. Someone knocking.

“Will?”

He couldn’t find the air in his lungs to speak.

The door handle moving indicated that he didn’t need to.

“Will?”

All he could do in the moment was tuck his knees up to cover himself, and drop his head into his arms.

He heard Hannibal take a few steps forward, and pause.

“Sorry. You were gone so long, I thought you might be asleep.”

“I was.”

“I didn’t want to wake you.”

“I managed that on my own.”

“Yes. I heard the shouting.”

Will placed his head back against the cold tile wall.

He sniffed.

“I always ruin your dinner, huh?”

Hannibal shook his head. His eyes were gentle, and noticing Will’s discomfort, he kept them fixed on the wall above him.

“Not at all.”

He took a few more steps, until he was crouching at the edge of the tub.

“You said you were feeling better, Will.”

“I am.”

“Forgive me, but it doesn’t look like it.”

He smiled, blinking back tears.

“This is just…normal.”

“Were you dreaming?”

“Something like that.”

“What did you dream about?”

“My father.”

He grimaced.

“Its always my father.”

“You think about him a lot.”

“He haunts me.”

“Even now?”

“The older I get, the more I see him. I see him in myself.”

“What did he do to you, Will?”

Will swallowed, thickly. He choked on the words.

“What did _I_ do to _him_. “

Hannibal nodded. Never surprised.

As if it had simply confirmed another suspicion.

“It wasn’t cancer.”

“He had it.”

“It didn’t kill him. Did it?”

Will’s shoulders were shaking. He wrapped his arms around himself to still them.

“Sick dogs get put down.”

“How did you do it?”

“Shotgun. To the head.”

His lower lip trembled, and he lowered his head again. Shattered by the weight of his confession.

“Every day, he told me that the only reason he was glad to die was so that he never had to see his son again.”

He gasped, for another shuddering breath.

“He told me I was the Devil.”

“You were seventeen, Will.”

Hannibal placed his hand, lightly, against Will’s back, in the space between his shoulder blades. As though he were testing to see what he would do.

He didn’t pull away.

“You were seventeen, you were in Hell, and you didn’t see another way out.”

“I didn’t tell you because I was looking for forgiveness.”

“It’s not me you need forgiveness from.”

“God won’t forgive me.”

“You need forgiveness from yourself, Will.”

_“How?”_

Hannibal felt the word shudder through Will’s body.

“How can I do that? I buried him. Behind the house. I mean, God, I still…I still remember it. I had to dig with my hands. And I had to keep the dog away from him because he was starving and I was starving and I was so worried he would….he would _eat_ him. And I didn’t…”

He faltered.

“…and I didn’t tell anyone he was dead for three days. And then when I did they all just… _believed_ me.”

“He was dying of cancer. It wasn’t unexpected.”

“I thought my life was over. That I’d killed us both.”

“God was killing him anyway, Will. You beat Him at His own game.”

“I don’t feel like I won.”

“You survived. Isn’t that enough?”

“Not if I have to live like this. With the guilt of it.”

They stayed, for a while.

Still. Quiet.

Letting the water go cold.

Hannibal moved his hand up Will’s back, intertwining his fingers gently in the curls at the nape of his neck.

“Do you want me to wash your hair?”

“That’s it?”

“It’s been said. That’s enough.”

“I can look after myself.”

“I know you can. You’ve had to for far longer than most.”  
  


He smoothed the damp hair back off of Will’s face.

“But do you want me to?”

Will breathed, closing his eyes, and leaning slightly against Hannibal’s hands.

“Please.”

Hannibal nodded, pressing his fingertips gently against Will’s scalp, tracing the lines of his skull.

“You can relax. I won’t look.”

“I don’t want you to see me like this.”

“What do you think it would change?”

“I don’t want to be pitied.”

“Is that what you think this is, Will? Pity?”

Will shrugged.

“I’ve never known for certain.”

“It’s not pity.”

“Why am I always sickest when I’m with you?”

The hands paused.

“Perhaps love is the ability to be weak with someone.”

Will wiped his eyes. He opened his mouth.

Forming the words. Seeing how they felt in his mouth.

“Then I guess this is love. Isn’t it?”

Hannibal lowered Will’s head down to the water to rinse his hair. He smiled.

“Hallelujah.”

“Even now? After all of that?”

“I suspected there was something unsaid.”

“You just wanted me to admit it?”

“Our life together has been a series of confessions, Will.”

Will echoed him. Softly.

_“Our life together.”_

“You told me not so long ago that you didn’t think you could be loved.”

“I don’t. Not naturally.”

“Nature is not a bouquet, Will. Or a cultivated garden. A lap dog. You of all people should know that.”

Hannibal lifted his head again, and reached for a towel.

“Nature is a million things with teeth and claws. Nature will kill us all given the chance.”

“And _this_ will kill us. I will kill you, Hannibal. Your career. Everything. If you choose this.”

Will took the towel, and stood, leaning against Hannibal’s shoulder.

“Or it will bring us both back to life, Will.”

“I think life scares me more than death.”

“It’s terrifying.”

Hannibal could feel Will’s heartbeat against his own chest.

He placed his hand on his cheek, and held him. Feeling his breath on his skin. The warmth of his body. 

“But I think it would be bearable in your company.”

Will clasped his hands in Hannibal’s shirt, and pressed his lips into his collarbone.

He could smell nothing but flesh, soap, and spices.

Over Hannibal’s shoulder, he saw them both reflected in the mirror.

It struck him that this was his final admittance. His final confession at the gates of heaven.

One that he mouthed, breathless, against another man’s shoulder.

Then onto the curve of his jawbone.

Shaking with fear. And cold.

And the feeling of being born again, crying, into the arms of someone who loved him.

And finally he spoke it, hushed, against Hannibal’s lips. Which parted, in acceptance.

“Then I’ll bear it.”


End file.
